


Unstitch Me

by SinpaiCasanova



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blackmail, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dubious Consent, Escort Service, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hair-pulling, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Protective Natasha Romanov, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Spit As Lube, Steve Rogers Feels, Thoughts of Self-harm, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Top Steve Rogers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2019-10-02 06:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 74,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17259134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinpaiCasanova/pseuds/SinpaiCasanova
Summary: Steve is a lonely widower, coming up on three years since his wife, Peggy, died during a home invasion. Steve wasn't home when it happened, and he blames himself for her death. He doesn't go out often anymore; if ever, but Sam's invitation to head out for a quick drink lands him at a bar where–instead of meeting Sam for said drink–he meets Bucky, who's a paid escort hired by Sam to entertain Steve for the night. Problem is, Steve doesn't know that Bucky is an escort and Bucky can't tell him per the stipulations of his contract with Sam. It was only supposed to be a means for Steve to get back out there and date again, but Steve can't stay away and Bucky is finding it harder to keep up the charade when he starts falling for Steve as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cutewarmachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutewarmachine/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at writing Stucky. Please be gentle.

His eyes are glassy and bloodshot; pillow wet from the tears that saturated the cotton fabric underneath his head. Steve can't seem to sleep tonight; too busy staring at the empty spot in the bed next to him that used to hold her delicate frame. Honestly, he shouldn't be all that surprised. This is a normal occurrence for him, and sleep was always just a fleeting thing that came and went like the tide. 

Steve's gaze is fixed on the nightstand across from him. But it's not the nightstand that has his rapt attention. It's the picture frame sitting atop it--and the photo of the couple, smiling and posing in formal attire that's fit for a wedding.

He sniffs, wipes his eyes and sits up; leaning over to grab the frame and bring it up close to his face. Fingers trace her outline, memorizing her smile and the sound of her laughter that sometimes still echoes inside his mind. Although, it's getting harder to remember how beautiful her laughter really is--or, was. 

It's been three years since he'd last heard it in person, and he thinks that it was over some corny joke he told over dinner. Sometimes the little details that make someone who they are get skewed and blurred when the grief finally clears, but it's those details that keep her alive--that keep her safe in his mind where he can protect her. Just like he should have the night he lost her.

He places a light kiss across her image, pushing back the urge to shed a few more tears. He doesn't deserve to feel sorry for himself over this. It's his fault she's lying in a casket in Green-Wood instead of here with him. Why didn't he just answer the damn phone when she called? Why didn't he come home when he said he would? If he'd been there things might have been different, but he wasn't and so they aren't. He has to spend the rest of his life thinking about that; weighing each variable and going through the scenario, again and again, to see how different things might have been if he would have just fucking listened to her.

Steve sets the frame down on the nightstand, huffing out an exasperated sound when his head hit the pillow once again.

"Night, Peg." He murmurs, knowing he wouldn't be sleeping but saying it anyway. It brings him comfort; staying in this unhealthy routine that keeps him feeling guilty and accountable. Maybe if he punishes himself enough, God will see his misery and give her back to him. But God wasn't the one that took his wife from this earth. A man did. A simple, average, down-on-his-luck man pulled a gun on his wife--in their home, as it was--and shot her because he was far too hopped up on amphetamines to keep a steady finger on the trigger. 

Who knows what might have happened if Steve were actually home that evening when the man broke in through the back door. The answer to that question will never be known, and it kills him a little more each day to have to live with it.

He falls in and out of sleep, dreaming of her and waking with a start once his alarm goes off. The sheets are wet with sweat again; blonde hair sticking to his forehead and brows knit in a look that just screams ' _help me_ '. Steve scrubs his face with the palm of his trembling hand, climbing out of bed and making his way towards the bathroom to start another day.

He spends a long time in the shower; longer than he means to, anyway. It seems to be the only place where his thoughts aren't constantly attacking him. The warm water feels nice against his skin, and he remembers how he used to tease her for using up all the hot water. Little pearls of memory resurface at the oddest moments, and mundane tasks that he usually wouldn't think twice about are now reminders of how she used to do this or that, and suddenly she's consumed his mind again until he feels like he can't even breathe.

She's the lead in his lungs, always tearing him apart.

Steve's reflection does little to comfort him. His blue eyes have lost their shine; now lined with the deep-purple proof of his sleepless nights. His beard is thicker and his hair is a little longer; able to fall over his eyes if it's not kept in place. Peggy would have fussed over it until he got it trimmed, and he agrees, the style is very--not him. But he just doesn't have the energy to give a shit.

He sighs and rakes a comb through his honied hair, giving himself the once-over in the mirror before brushing his teeth and stepping out to get dressed.

Steve is quite the accomplished architect and basically built their home from the ground up on his own. Of course, he had help from Sam and few guys he still talks to from his days in the army, but Steve is the literal definition of a mister-fix-it. He doesn't reach out for help unless it's absolutely necessary, and even then it's like pulling teeth to get him to admit that he can't fix whatever it is on his own.

Peg would usually have to call in the cavalry to come and rescue Steve from himself, and it's times like this that he wished someone would swoop in and take his hands off the wheel for a bit. Steve wants guidance and wisdom, someone to tell him that he's strong enough to do this; that he even _can_ do this because he's not so sure of himself anymore. He's constantly filled with doubt and fear, wondering what he should do or where he ought to go, and it makes him miss her all the more.

The moment he steps out and locks the door behind him, Steve's phone is buzzing in his pocket. He doesn't have to look to know that it's Sam; since he was the only one to stick by Steve when his grief shut everyone else out. Even Tony became weird and distant, but Tony is also a bit self-centered and Steve's attitude does little to nothing to make him feel valued as a person or a friend. He means well, but his approach is just all wrong.

Steve slid his phone out of his pocket and bites his lip; reading the line of text that filled up his screen. Sam wants to meet for a drink tonight– at the same place they always used to frequent, back when Steve still had a social life. The message is short and clear, giving Steve little room to wiggle out of this again.

It's just a drink at the tavern. No need to worry. Steve could probably use a little break from himself; give his mind a rest and lean into the comfort of a friend for a bit. Besides, it's not like he has anyone to come home to.

Steve sighs and shoots him a reply, saying that he'd be there around eight after his meeting with Tony was concluded. And truth be told, he felt like he needed this; needed Sam, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Steve felt like he could breathe a little easier.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, Nat spoke very highly of you over the phone. Said you were the best in the business." Sam began, looking over the man seated across from him at the cafe with a wary expression.

"I'm discreet if that's what you're asking. Money under the table, no paper trail that would ever lead him back to you." The man replies, and Sam can't help but wonder how in the hell he ever thought that this would be a good idea.

The man seated across the table is breathtakingly gorgeous, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and olive skin; bluish grey eyes and a pretty pink smile. He's stylishly dressed in a button-up and jeans; making Sam's own outfit of a t-shirt and sweats look a bit too relaxed and casual. He's definitely Steve's type–if Steve still even has a type, and Sam feels a little more confident that Steve might take the bait. If he chooses to go through with this trash-fire of a plan to get his best friend out of this funk.

"I'm not so much worried about that, _Winter_." Sam counters. "Steve isn't the type to just take home a random stranger, much less a man that he knows only wants him 'cause he's paid to. He needs to feel valued and wanted, you know? Like you're actually interested in who he is as a person, rather than just going for the metaphorical gold straight from the jump. He won't respond well to that."

Sam takes a drink of his coffee, rolling around the thought of how hurt Steve would be if knew what he was up to. But what choice does he have? Steve has been drowning in his own grief for years, and Sam has run out of options to try and bring him back from the point of no return.

He's tried counseling (which Steve flat out told him he wouldn't participate in), double dating that always ended up feeling like Steve was just along for the ride anyway, and pretty much anything else that he could think of to try and break that circle that Steve is helplessly trapped in.

Hiring an escort to basically go after Steve and convince him that life isn't as shitty as it seems was...an interesting thought to come to, but Nat assured him that Bucky was just the right type of determined to get the job done and rock Steve's world all at the same time. Sam trusts Natasha. She's never once let him down and if she claims that Bucky is the man that Steve needs for the night, then he'll take that to the bank and cut the check, because Nat would never steer him wrong when it came to Steve.

Bucky–or Winter, as his pseudo claimed him to be above the ad that Natasha sent him–gave Sam a knowing look as he sits back in his chair and folds his soft-looking hands in his lap. He purses his lips, humming with thought as he absorbs the additional information in.

"Perfectly understandable. I can see why you would say that, but trust that I can and will give your friend exactly what he needs." He assures, smiling calmy despite the fact that Sam pretty much just insulated his line of work. It wasn't the first time, nor the last, and Bucky let it slide because it simply didn't bother him anymore. "If my profession makes him uncomfortable or he's looking for something a little more realistic then I can just drop the pseudo and act like myself. He's a good looking guy, so I don't believe that I'd have any issues with that."

"He wouldn't know?–Like, at all?" Sam asks incredulously, because he's still not fully convinced that this is the right thing to do.

"I give you my word," Bucky says. "We can put it in writing if you want, but it's another two grand to make this arrangement into a contracted scene."

"And that would mean–what exactly?"

"A contracted scene would ensure that Steve gets what you're paying for." He explains. "It's a little like role play; where I act out the role of the stranger at the bar. He'd be none the wiser to think that our meeting was anything but that; a chance encounter with a beautiful stranger. It's totally discreet, and Steve will never have to know about our arrangement."

"And if he doesn't bite?" Sam counters. "What then? How far are you willing to go to make sure he leaves satisfied? Because Steve is about as vanilla as they come."

"I offer a full refund if I fail," He says, shrugging. "But I haven't failed yet and I don't plan on starting now."

Sam sighs and looks down at his hands; idly picking at the tablecloth while he considers Bucky's offer. Is he really about to go through with this? So much could end up going wrong if Bucky slips up or Steve starts to feel cornered. He doesn't know if he can really trust Bucky's word, but the thought of binding him to a contract that ties his earnings up with it is making him feel a little more at ease with the idea of setting Steve up with an escort.

Is he a terrible friend for considering this? Probably. But Sam is just hyper-fixated on the light coming out of the 'Steve is in trouble and needs my help' tunnel that he's found himself in. He just wants to show Steve that there's more to life than just pain and misery. Even if he has to stoop to unconventional means to do so. Sex is a good thing. It could be just what Steve needs to release some of that pent-up frustration that he knows Steve is struggling with. But he hasn't really thought about what will happen after Bucky completes his mission and leaves Steve a boneless heap of skin and fizzled out nerves.

Steve is painfully monogamous, and stubborn to boot. If he likes Bucky enough then he'll chase after him, thinking that what they had was real. Sam doesn't want to think about the what-ifs right now, even if he should. He's only looking at one outcome from this, and it's that thought that makes him finally nod his head in agreement. He's going to do this. He has to. Steve needs something good to happen in his life, even if it's only for one night.

"Contract it is then," he sighs, casting a weighted glance up towards Bucky; who's smiling warmly at him. "I'm counting on you to keep this whole thing under wraps. Steve doesn't have to know who you really are, and if you fuck up and he does, then you lose the money. It's as simple as that."

"You have nothing to worry about, Sam. I'm in, out, and I'm gone the next day. It'll be like I never existed."


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky leaves the cafe a little after two in the afternoon, hailing a cab and going over the information Sam provided him about Steve during the twenty-minute ride back to his apartment. Steve appears to be your average hardworking white-collar man. He has a history with the military—same as Bucky—but was honorably discharged shortly after his fifth year for unstated reasons.

Bucky enjoyed his time in the service and planned to make a career out of it. That is until a shoulder injury sent him home after only a year on active duty. It's safe to say that he fell into his own dark thoughts for a while after that, turning to alcohol and sex to numb the ache in his chest. It wasn't until one of his random, drunken hookups mistakenly mistook him for a prostitute and paid him one-hundred dollars in cash that he realized he could make a profession out of his pain.

He's since become a bit more cautious and selective about which clients he takes on—per the request of his roommate, Nat—and Bucky is actually quite happy to let her vet his potential lays to make sure he isn't bedding a serial killer. Not that he couldn't hold his own if he needed to defend himself, but Nat is generally more relaxed about what Bucky does for rent money when she has a personal hand in picking who's dick he's about to suck.

  
It's clear to him why she chose Steve as a potential client of Bucky's. The guy is lonely, hurting, and honestly needs to be fucked out of his own head for a while. From the information Sam provided, Steve lost his wife a few years back to some crack head that needed money for a quick fix. The robbery went sour and his wife ended up dead. It's just your typical trauma-related, guilt-addled funk that he's in, and Bucky knows all too well how dangerous it is to be alone with nothing but your own mind for an extended period of time. If he can help this guy get back out there to lead a semi-normal life by doing nothing more than fucking him silly then sign him the fuck up right now.

The cab pulls up to the tall brick building Bucky calls home and drops him off. The driver was kind enough to not ask why Bucky paid him in crisp, brand-new twenty-dollar bills, and instead wished him a good day and went on with his life.

Bucky rolled around the thought of meeting Steve in Sam's place on the elevator ride up to his shared apartment, wondering how this guy would react to him and how he should even approach. Steve doesn't sound like the type that would respond to brazen flattery—or as Sam so eloquently put it—' _going_ _for the metaphorical gold'_ right from the start. Bucky will have to reevaluate his strategy and treat this as an actual random encounter, where sex isn't ultimately the end goal. Even when it clearly is.

By the time Bucky enters the apartment and places his keys in the little bowl by the door, he's surprised to find Nat lying on the couch in the living room, passed out with her laptop still open and sitting lopsidedly across her lap. Her auburn hair is still damp from the shower she recently took, and Bucky sighs as he quietly approached and reached out to take her laptop before it ended up broken again.

Eyes still closed, Nat reached out and snatched Bucky's wrist, muttering a soft, "hands off," and nearly scaring the shit out of him. It's kind of creepy how Nat seems to sleep with one eye open, always aware of her surroundings, even when she's supposed to be balls deep in la la land.

"Jesus, Nat," Bucky breaths, hand coming up to clutch his chest; heart in his throat and beating fast. "You're gonna give me a fuckin' heart attack one of these days."

"That's a bit dramatic, don't you think?" She responded, eyes still closed but lips curling up into a wry smile.

Bucky didn't take the bait. He knows better than to step into that bear trap.

"What the hell are you even doing out here?" He asks instead, moving her feet so he could sit on the other end of the couch; placing her feet on his lap like he always does. "You do have a bedroom, with a nice bed you could sleep on. You know, like a normal human being."

"Fuck off, Barnes." She snaps, voice sharp but still just as playful as his. "I'm just resting my eyes."

"After a sixteen-hour graveyard shift? Nat, you're exhausted. Go to bed."

"I was waiting on you." She says, eyes finally opening. "How'd things go with Sam?"

Bucky sighs, hands absentmindedly wrapping around her foot for an impromptu massage. Not that she minded one bit.

"Sam is—" He paused, searching his mind for the right word. "Desperate."

Nat laughs a bit louder than she means to, reaching up and closing the lid on her laptop. "That's all you can say? C'mon! I'm practically handing you an easy two-grand here."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "There's nothing _easy_ about this, Nat. That's sort of why I called him desperate. But, it's four-grand, not two."

"Oh?" She hums, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "And who will you be playing the part of this time?"

"James," he simply says, shrugging. "This guy isn't after who I am on my website, Nat. He's the cheesy type that likes long walks on the beach and making love to Teddy Pendergrass after a few glasses of wine."

Nat can't help but giggle at how ridiculous Bucky is sometimes. He treats love like it's some kind of fatal ailment, which is probably why he hasn't brought home someone for Nat to threaten in quite a while.

Okay, so she has a few ulterior motives with this setup. But Sam does as well, so she doesn't feel the need to bring that up or pout about how Bucky needs to find a safer line of work. There are some real creeps out there, and Bucky has had his fair share or close encounters in the past. It's only a matter of time before he ends up hurt or dead in an alleyway. Hopefully, Steve will make a nice impression on Bucky and they'll fall in love and take long walks on the beach while sipping wine and making love to Teddy Pendergrass.

"Are you sure this isn't going to backfire on you?" Nat asks incredulously, eyes slipping shut once again as she melted into the way Bucky was rubbing her feet. "Any one of your other aliases would be just fine, Buck. Why not use one of those? It's safer, especially if you're supposed to be someone other than who you really are. That's kind of the point of roleplay, or did you just forget how to properly do your job?"

"You're a real ass, you know." He quips, pausing his hands and making her pout. "Sam doesn't want him to know that it's a setup. The only ones that know about what I do for a living are you and Sam, and I don't plan on losing four-grand on a guy that has morals and shit. If I show up as James—who I am outside of my profession—then it comes across as genuine, and that's what he's into. I know how to do my job, Nat."

"Part of my job is making sure you don't end up seeing the inside of a holding cell, or god-forbid, the morgue. I just want you to be careful, Jame."

Bucky looks away and feels that familiar pang of guilt. He knows that he's putting Nat at risk by doing what he does, but Bucky is still a bit selfish in his ways. He likes that he does and doesn't want to stop, even if his best friend could lose her job and her pension over this. Not to mention, Nat could also face jail-time for associating with Bucky and using her influence and company resources to vet potential clients. She's doing it to keep him safe and out of harm's way, but Bucky only sees it as it being _her choice_ to do this for him. Nat could just as easily wash her hands of this and tell Bucky that he's on his own. But she doesn't and she won't, so that's on her.

"If only your captain could see you now," he muses, resuming the mindless motion of his hands and smiling playfully at her; successfully diffusing the tension between them. "A cop fraternizing with a prostitute. What a scandal."

"Sam's just as guilty as I am." She reminded, playing along. "If I go down, I'm taking him with me."

"Well, he's your partner, so he's guilty by association anyway." He chuckles, glancing down and pulling his buzzing phone from his pocket.

"Speak of the devil—"

"What's he want?" Nat asks, already knowing what it is in the back of her mind.

"I'm meeting Steve tonight at Sean's Bar, 8 pm sharp." He murmured, typing something back and setting his phone down on the coffee table. Nat is giving him a look that he knows all too well, and he groans; head falling back onto the couch cushion.

"Yes, alright, I'll text you when I get there and when I'm leaving...Fuckin' air traffic control."

"You better." She warns, shifting to get a bit more comfortable on the couch while Bucky continues to pamper her. He says nothing, just closing his eyes himself and focusing on getting his mind prepared for what's to come. He doesn't know how Steve will react to him, but he has a feeling that this won't be anything he's ever experienced thus far.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky slides his hand across the bathroom mirror, wiping away the built-up condensation from his fairly recent shower. It was a quarter to seven; giving Bucky plenty of time to prep for his evening out with Steve.

His toned body was smooth and squeaky clean—inside and out—and Bucky just hoped that all of this effort wasn't about to go to waste. He wasn't sure if Steve would want to fuck him– or if he did–what role he would naturally fit into once they got down to business. Bucky's a switch (thankfully), and he's had more than one situation where the biggest, burliest of men had slipped into a submissive role for him just as easily as pulling on a fitted glove had been.

Steve could be exactly like that, or he could be a hardcore alpha male that ends up fucking Bucky to within an inch of his life. He could be somewhere in the middle as well; like Bucky himself. It was just the unknown itself that was making him feel a little antsy, which is odd when he really thought about it.

Perhaps it's the prospect of earning four grand or the possibility that Steve could take one look at Bucky and instantly see right through him; making him lose the money and part of his pride. He just feels so much pressure on his shoulders to try and somehow ' _fix'_ this broken man that Nat and Sam dumped onto his lap with nothing more than a fake conversation and a good orgasm. But Bucky has also had bigger clients with more profit on the line than anything Sam was offering, so it could be that he's just naturally nervous about being himself around a stranger—which he's not exactly thrilled about.

Before he has any time to really jump down that rabbit hole and explore the actual reason for his anxiety, his ears perk up and his head turns once the smooth sound of brass instruments and bass guitar invade the hallway just outside the bathroom door. Nat must really think she's funny because Bucky knows who the artist is and why she's playing _Close the Door_ by none other than Teddy _fucking_ Pendergrass himself.

Why was he so insistent on making that joke? He should have known that Nat was going to use it to torment him until he fucked off from the house to meet Steve at the bar.

_Dear God, someone help him._

Bucky wraps the semi-dry towel around his narrow waist and resigns himself to just open the door and get this over with. He can hear Nat singing the lyrics just outside the door, slurring her words and slightly off-key because she's buzzed on Kahlua again. Clint must be coming over to see her, and for once, Bucky's happy he'll be out of the house and away from their not-so-subtle sounds that even the apartment next to them can hear.

At least Bucky has the common courtesy to take his sexual trists elsewhere.

" _Close the door! Let me give you what you've been waitin' for—_ " Nat sings, using the half-empty bottle of liquor as her makeshift microphone. " _Baby, I've got so much love to give! And I wanna give it all to you—_ "

Bucky opens the bathroom door, glaring hard enough to make milk curdle. " _I've waited all day long, just to hold you in my arms—"_

Nat is grinning like the mischievous little shit that she is; gyrating to the beat and making a general fool out of herself, and Bucky can't keep the scowl plastered to his face; even though he's desperately trying to.

" _And it's exactly like I thought it would be—_ "

Bucky caves and actually joins in, snatching the Kahlua bottle from her and belting out the next lyric. " _Me lovin' you, and you lovin' me!_ " As much as he hates to admit it, he loves this song. It's just infectiously groovy, even if Nat is using it to try and piss him off.

These two needle each other way too much for either to take anything as stupid as this seriously. It's all in good fun, and no one ever died from a little bit of good-hearted ribbing. Bucky has done worse than this on many occasions; like the time he recorded Nat having phone sex with Clint and played it from the Bluetooth speakers in the kitchen when said boyfriend was over having a very romantic dinner with Nat a few nights later. Bucky was pretty sure he was going to die that night. But like he always says, it's just a joke. No harm no foul. Nat got over it, and life went on.

"You look very proud of yourself," Bucky pointed out, taking a swig of liquor and knitting his brows when Nat snatched it back.

"Why shouldn't I be? I'm putting you in the right frame of mind, right? You should be thanking me." She playfully sniped.

Bucky just rolls his eyes and heads off towards his bedroom, combing his fingers through his wet hair and opening up his closet to pick out something to wear. Nat follows (unsurprisingly), leaning on the door frame as the song ends and changes to the next, now playing _Trouble Man_ —another great choice, Nat.

"Wear something blue," she says. "Brings out your eyes."

"My eyes aren't what's gonna get this guy in bed with me, Nat."

"James, the eyes are the windows to the soul. You want to appear genuine, right?"

Nat has a point. "Yes."

"Then make those blues pop. Besides looking like a model on the regular, your eyes are your best feature. Show them off just like you do your ass. I guarantee he'll be more receptive to the color of your eyes than how tight your jeans are. Trust me on this one."

Bucky shrugs, pulling out a bluish-grey leather jacket that Nat personally picked out for him a few months ago. "I'll just take your word for it, Nat."

There's no point in fighting with her. She always gets her way in the end, and she knows it. Nat looks way too proud of that fact, and Bucky has to stifle a groan to keep the peace.

He eventually finishes dressing himself—with Nat picking out everything he's wearing, even down to the color of his boxer briefs; which are baby blue, by the way— and Bucky feels his stomach tying itself in a loose knot as he checks himself over in the mirror.

Nat was right, the blue jacket and white t-shirt definitely make his eyes pop, and the dark jeans are just tight enough to make him the right shade of alluring. Anyone with a brainstem would have a hard time tearing their eyes away from him when he looks _this_ good. 

Bucky pulls his long hair back into a messy bun, giving him a casual look that doesn't give away his pretenses. Nat seems to agree, as well as Clint; who's just arrived at their apartment as Bucky's on his way out.

_Perfect timing, Buck._

While his nerves are eating him alive better than some creature from a horror film, halfway across town, Steve is feeling another emotion entirely. He's worn down to the bone.

The meeting with Tony Stark didn't go as he'd expected, and Steve had to fire one of his contractors that fucked up on the construction site of Tony's new tower. Most architects aren't even present for the actual construction that takes place after the design he crafts is approved, but Steve operates a little differently than most. Especially when Tony's interests are on the line. He wants to have a personal hand in everything that his company does; even construction.

Regardless of how Steve felt regarding the termination of one of his employees, Tony always has the final say and it leaves a sour taste in his mouth that he can't wait to wash out with a cold beer and some good company. But the funny thing is, even though Sam confirmed their plans this afternoon, he's nowhere to be found.

Steve shoots off a text and takes his usual stool at the bar, glancing sideways at the man sitting where Sam usually would. This bar is a small little hole-in-the-wall dive joint that hardly anyone goes to on a weeknight, so seeing this stranger perched on Sam's stool while he nurses a beer and fucks around on his phone is making Steve feel weird. It shouldn't because it's a free damn country and he can sit wherever he pleases, but Steve can't help but feel like his plans have been thrown off kilter by his mere presence. And to top it all off, Sam just messaged him to say that he wasn't coming out; giving him the lame excuse of coming down with a sudden case of food poisoning.

 _Fucking great_. Just what he needed to hear.

The stranger next to him shifts his eyes over to glance conspicuously at Steve, and for a moment, he's drawn to just how pretty they are. They almost don't look real, but then again, his shade of baby blues closely resemble sapphire gems. Peggy always said they were his best feature.

Steve meets his gaze, hesitates for a moment, and decides to stay put. There's no reason for him to head home if he's already here. Might as well enjoy a beer or two and get a nice buzz going before he trudges back home to his empty house. He'd give anything to have someone to talk to though, and as if the man next to him can read his mind, he smiles softly and lets their eye contact linger. It's an open invitation for conversation, and Steve wants to reach out and take it for all it's worth.   
  



	5. Chapter 5

The eye contact lingers between them for a period of no longer than five or six seconds, but it's long enough to pique Bucky's interest in starting a conversation with Steve. He has no idea how he should even go about doing that since he's supposed to just play it cool and hope that his stellar personality gets him where he wants to be; which is wrapped around Steve like a damn koala, covered in bruises with a cock up his ass and four-grand in his account. But he's getting a bit ahead of himself here. He has to make conversation first to assess Steve's interests and adjust his own to make them seem compatible. It's a good strategy, but Bucky isn't sure how receptive Steve will even be to his advances.

There's only one way to find out. Time to stop over analyzing the situation and just jump straight into it. Funny enough though, it's Steve that initiates first; leaning forward on the bartop and resting his weight on his elbows. There are a million different ways that Steve could open up this conversation, ranging from the typical ' _what're you drinking?_ ' To the even more forward, ' _haven't seen you around here before._ ' But what he actually chooses to say is something that Bucky definitely didn't expect to hear from him at all.

"You have very pretty eyes."

Bucky visibly balks at that statement, which, in turn, makes Steve blush with embarrassment.

Well, that's one way to open up a line of dialog between them.

This is actually Steve, right? The photo Sam sent him in his email was an older one, but the man sitting next to him fits the general appearance well enough. The only thing that was throwing him off was the thick beard that covered Steve's strong jaw. That and the fact that this man was fucking ripped like a Greek God.

A photo can only paint a vague picture of what someone will look like in person, but sometimes, reality is so much better than anything that photo predicts.

_God damn..._

Does this guy live at the fucking gym?

Those jeans are so tight he can practically hear the zipper crying. Probably right along with the seam of his red flannel. He's bursting out of his clothes even more than Bucky is, and that's really saying something.

Bucky draws in a steady breath, suddenly realizing that he's been staring at Steve like he'd grown a second head for about half a minute, and he needs to say something or this is going to go down in flames before it ever gets off the ground.

"Uh," he squeaks, searching his brain for that charm and charisma that packed up and left right along with the air in his lungs. "You too?"

_Well. Fucking. Done. Bucky._

If Nat could see him now, she'd be laughing her ass off at how well this was going already. One little harmless comment about his damn eyes and he'd suddenly forgotten how to do his job. But he can still salvage this if he can just pull his head out of his own ass for five seconds.

Steve's mouth is curling up slightly in a subtle smirk, so at least he doesn't think that Bucky's a total idiot. That's good. He just has to push himself back onto his feet and focus on the task at hand. This isn't an actual random encounter. He has no interest in pursuing Steve outside of this scenario, regardless of how unfairly attractive he is. Bucky has a mission to complete, and Steve is the target.

He takes another swig of his beer, allowing the cold, calculated calm of confidence to switch on, and just like that his entire demeanor shifts into something a bit cockier and brash.

So, Steve likes his eyes? Better use them to his advantage then.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, drawing Steve's attention away from the tv to the left and back onto Bucky where it should be. "It's been a long day and I wasn't prepared to hear such a sweet compliment from someone like you. Caught me off guard."

"Someone like me?" Steve parroted, letting the words slowly roll off his tongue as he made a face that showed how bitter they tasted to him.

"Yeah," Bucky shrugs, smirking wryly. "You know, the strong, sexy, silent type."

Steve's expression shifts from bitter confusion to utter bashfulness, ducking his head a bit and smiling at the polished wood of the bartop. Bucky felt a burst of pride, strangely satisfied that he was able to make Steve smile like that. He's actually pretty cute when he's shy. Bucky likes that look on him, and he wants to know what other expressions bring out the gorgeous shimmer of blue in his eyes like that.

"Got me all figured out, hm?" Steve hums, glancing between Bucky and the door like he was expecting Sam to be there cheering him on for nothing more than flirting with a stranger. God knows he's been on Steve's ass about meeting new people and trying new things. Maybe for once he'd listen and see what the man with the pretty blue eyes has to offer him.

"Just good at reading people is all." Bucky widens his smirk into a charming and relaxed grin, raising up his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "I can tell that you're not used to this kind of attention. Especially from people you don't know."

"That obvious?" Steve sighs, shaking his head. "I thought I was a little smoother than that, but hey, you're not wrong."

"I never said you weren't charming." Bucky reiterates. "I mean, who doesn't dig the whole loner-with-a-checkered-past thing? You're like a character straight out of a _Nora Roberts_ novel."

Steve snorts. "You read _Nora Roberts_?"

"Don't judge my literary choices." Bucky playfully chides. "It's a compliment."

Steve visibly relaxes, letting his shoulders lower a bit and his posture open up into something a bit less guarded; turning on the bar stool to face Bucky a bit more.

"So, just going by that analogy," Steve starts, eyeing Bucky curiously. "Who would you be in this scenario?"

"The devilishly gorgeous and just as mysterious love interest, of course."

Bucky didn't even miss a beat, and Steve's smile all but confirmed that Bucky had him right where he wanted him now. Steve didn't protest or say anything that would contradict that fact. But he did give Bucky his name along with his hand to shake, and Bucky exchanged his own in return. And rather than give Steve his actual first name as he'd planned, he tells him to call him by his nickname.

For some odd reason that Bucky can't quite figure out, it doesn't feel right to have Steve refer to him as James. It's too clinical and stiff sounding, even rolling off of Steve's tongue that makes everything sound like gravel dipped in steel and rolled in honey. Besides that, he won't let anyone but Nat refer to him as Jamie. Mostly because she doesn't care if he hates it. She'll do it just to piss him off, but that's just how they are with each other.

Steve is obviously different.

Steve's entire body language changes after that. He's still a little shy towards Bucky, but he's more open to following that particular line of dialog to see where it leads to. The beer helps loosen him up as well, and even though Bucky doesn't allow himself to get intoxicated with clients, he finds himself matching Steve to keep up the façade.

By the time Steve is on his second beer and Bucky is finishing up his first, they've shifted the conversation from _Nora Roberts_ novels to baseball. Bucky finds out that Steve is a Red Sox fan, and promptly accuses him of being a traitor to the Yankees, and Steve, in turn, accuses Bucky of having blind loyalty to a bunch of talentless shitheads.

The topics shift from one thing to the next, ranging from favorite movies and tv shows, to music and books. Basically, all the typical things people talk about when they're just getting to know each other.

Besides the difference in opinion regarding who's better at hitting a ball with a stick, Bucky is surprised to know that he actually has a lot in common in Steve.

He's a fan of _Tolkien_ and _The Lord of the Rings_ films, likes older style music like _Doris Day_ and _Marvin Gaye_ —and surprise, surprise, even _Teddy Pendergrass._

Nat will definitely get a kick out of that. 

But then the conversation veers off once Bucky shrugs out of his jacket to get a little more comfortable, and Steve sees the long scar that's just visible at the top of his collarbone. He doesn't point it out or really say anything to draw attention to it, but Bucky can see his blue eyes drifting toward it every so often.

"It's from a shoulder injury," Bucky says, keeping his expression as neutral as he can possibly make it while downing a shot of whiskey. "Fucked it up pretty bad out in the field, now I can't even walk through a metal detector without setting it off."

Bucky huffed out a bubbly laugh that made Steve relax once he realized that he'd been caught staring. Bucky isn't all that self-conscious about his injury anymore, and especially when he's pleasantly buzzed and feeling like he's that much closer to earning four-grand as well as a good dicking by this Greek God lookalike. Bucky's hardly put any effort into pretending to like Steve, and was pretty certain the two of them would end up doing the mattress mambo by the time last call came around. Why ruin the moment over a little thing like scars?

"When you say out in the field, you mean—?"

"Yep. I'm guessing you've served as well? I wanted to make a career out of it, but I guess getting your arm nearly blown off is enough to get you medboarded these days. That's why I'm stuck doing commissions for rent money. Lucky me, huh?"

Steve frowns despite the hint of humor in Bucky's voice."Oh, shit, Buck. I'm so sorry." His fingers are nervously fidgeting with the gold band around his ring finger, drawing attention to it for the first time. Bucky knew about Steve wife and that she wasn't among the living anymore, but it made his heart stutter with a shock of sorrow to see that Steve still wears it.

"Don't be." Bucky waves off the concern in Steve's voice with a flick of his wrist, showing him that he doesn't care much for sympathy on the matter. "Shit happens and this was the card I was dealt. No point in crying over things that mean fuck all to my life now."

"I suppose that's a nice way to look at it." Steve sighs, glancing around to notice that he and Bucky are the only two left in the tavern besides the bartender sweeping up. "But yeah, I was a captain in the army until I too had to retire. Priorities, you know?"

Bucky nods.

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, eyes now focused on his watch. "Shit, I gotta get going. I didn't realize how late it was."

Bucky's eyes are a little unfocused and his vision is blurred by alcohol, but he mirrors Steve's movements to check his own watch. _**1:57 am**_.

Steve is already standing up from the stool and paying the tab by the time Bucky notices that his window is rapidly closing. He has to make a move or Steve will be out the door and gone faster than he can blink.

"Hey, w-wait!" Bucky slurs, shifting his unsteady weight onto his feet. He doesn't even know what he's going to say once Steve turns around, but he's guessing that _'I need you to fuck me before the night is over_ ' isn't a good place to start.

Steve stops and turns to face him, waiting for Bucky to say something or perhaps do anything besides gape at him like a fish.  
  
Bucky suddenly can't figure out what he wants to say, but Steve once again takes the initiative and grabs a pen and a cocktail napkin; scrawling something down and sliding it over to Bucky with a soft smile that makes him feel warmer than the alcohol ever did.

"No pressure." Is all he says to Bucky, and before the other even has time to really react, Steve is on his way out and Bucky is left alone at the bar.

His cloudy eyes flit down, and he's left staring at the napkin Steve left for him on the bartop. Bucky feels an odd mix of sensations from seeing the phone number scrawled in near perfect penmanship, obviously offering to give Bucky another shot at something. But he failed. Steve left before he could really do a damn thing to earn any of that money, and now he has to tell Sam that even he–an escort– couldn't get Steve into bed with him.

He'd tried to do things the safe way, but he got too caught up in the role of the stranger to properly make his move.

Fuck.

_Fuck!_

He just pissed away four-grand and has absolutely nothing to show for it. But his gaze still lingers on the napkin, and he thinks that maybe he could earn the money on the next go-around. Of course, he'd have to discuss things with Sam and see if he still wanted Bucky to try. He'd gotten Steve's phone number, so at least he knew that Steve likes him in some capacity.

Perhaps all isn't lost after all.


	6. Chapter 6

Buzzing heavily on booze, Steve was actually thankful that he'd decided to leave his Harley at home in place of taking a cab to the tavern. He didn't expect to blow fifty bucks on booze or spend close to six hours in the company of a complete stranger, but yet, here he is, fifty bucks poorer with thoughts of a man he hardly knew buzzing around inside his head like a swarm of angry hornets.

Bucky was quite the charmer. Sure, Steve had to push here, pull there to get his interest across, but talking to Bucky felt like seeing the sun peek through the clouds after a violent storm. He felt revived in a way that he hadn't since Peg finally caved and accepted his pitiful pleas to take her out on a date. It was nice. Being with Bucky felt nice. It was good to know that he could still feel the sun on his face after being trapped for so long in the eye of his own personal storm, but Steve also knew that this little moment of bliss would surely evaporate once the sun came up and the alcohol burned out of his system to make way for a nasty headache.

It would serve to remind him that he was still alone. Meeting Bucky hadn't actually changed a thing. Steve was still grieving, and he'd probably always feel this saturated with despair and hopelessness. Talking with Bucky wouldn't just magically fix that. But for now, sitting in the back of this stuffy taxi cab, he could at least pretend that it would. He could imagine that he wasn't heading home to an empty house, could lie to himself and say that he wasn't going to fall back into the arms of sorrow as soon as he sobered up and remembered that life didn't work that way.

Steve sighs, rubbing his flushed face with the palm of his hand and leaving it to settle across his mouth for a moment. He still smells like beer and Bucky; that intoxicating citrus scent that mixed so well with the light and slightly spicy aroma of his cologne. He thinks it might be some sort of shampoo that he caught a whiff of whenever Bucky moved too quickly or leaned a little closer towards him. Whatever it was, Steve couldn't imagine  _ not _ being able to smell it again.

He knows he's being too emotional and possessive over this fleeting moment that happened no less than half an hour ago, but he doesn't want to let it go just yet.

It feels too good to let it go.

So he doesn't.

The cab pulls up to the front of Steve's darkened and vacant house a bit too sharply, jarring him out of his own head and back to reality sooner than he would have liked. Steve pays the driver and mutters a quiet “thanks,” before pulling himself out of the back seat and onto the curb.

Instantly, he's reminded that no one else is home, and Peg finally works her way back to the forefront of his thoughts; shoving Bucky aside to take her rightful place as the center of his universe once again. Not that she ever wasn't. Bucky just makes him feel a bit more... _ human _ , he supposes. Most of the time he feels like  _ Frankenstein's Monster _ , shambling around with dead eyes; barely stitched together into a mockery of human life. It sounds a bit grotesque, but that's the image that comes to mind whenever Steve looks at himself in the mirror. Dead, inhuman,  _ stitched together _ . It's almost like he’d up and died when Peggy crossed over, and in some ways, he really did.

_ But Bucky _ ...oh, Bucky made him smile and laugh, made him forget for just a few blissful hours that he was just a ghost at most. Nothing more than a set of empty bones. For a moment there, Bucky made him feel whole again. But that’s just silly to even think about. Steve doesn't know this man. Yeah, six hours worth of conversation can reveal quite a lot about someone, but those are all things that Bucky had willingly let him see. It's those darkened areas of the heart and soul; the shit that people desperately try to hide and cover up that really tells you who they are.

It's tragedy and heartache that strips away the mask we hide behind; revealing our true, raw, vulnerable selves. Bucky is only showing Steve what he wants him to see, and subsequently, Steve does the same with him. No one reveals all of their playing cards before they even know their opponent. Bucky and Steve do not know each other. But Steve wants to change that.

Trudging up the sidewalk and passing through the now opened front door, Steve sets his keys in the bowl by the door and locks the house up tight just like he always has. Regardless of how unpredictably fun this evening out has been, Steve is still a paranoid fuck that checks the locks on the window and doors twice over before he even considers turning in for the night.

With his familiar routine back in action, Steve begins to feel what's left of his relaxation dissolve away like cotton candy in water. His paranoia is rearing its ugly head once again, reminding him of how quiet the house is; and that it's his fault the silence is so suffocating.

Steve marches into the bathroom to strip down to his underwear and scrub the booze from his teeth. The lingering scent of oranges and chai tea are still faintly there, scratching at the back of his mind like an insect. Every now and again he can feel it tapping against his skull, and Bucky's smile will flash in front of his eyes for a quick second. He shouldn't feel this way about Bucky. Steve knows that. But seeing him smile was like a sprinkle of rain in the middle of a drought. It wasn't enough to quench the parched soil, but it doused the dry land in life-giving bliss for just a moment. It felt good to be seen—heard, like he was more than just his grief. Steve wanted more. More rain. More smiles and that bubbly laughter that Bucky exudes whenever Steve says something funny.

Bucky thinks he's funny.

Peggy used to think that Steve was funny too, once upon a time.

Steve shuffles off to bed with his head in a weird place. He's not sober yet, but not nearly buzzed enough to sleep like he used to. Over time, Steve came to realize that the only nights he ever slept somewhat soundly were the same nights he nearly drank himself to death. Of course, Steve being Steve, quickly recognized that he was balancing an addiction on a tight string. Now, he doesn't even keep liquor in the house out of fear for what he could do if he's left to his own devices unsupervised for too long. Going out is different. He trusts Sam to keep his ass in check, and even Bucky didn't let him get past his third beer.

But still, the temptation is there.

Steve slips into the right-hand side of the bed, staring blankly at the spot that Peg used to fill. Briefly, he lets the image of Bucky fill the empty space against the mattress. It’s just a flash of a silhouette; a shock of long chestnut hair and steely-blue eyes against the sterile white of the bedsheets, but Steve feels his heart kick at the sight.

It doesn't feel strange to see another form in Peggy's spot.

Steve doesn't question it right away. He just lets the image of another warm body lying next to him permeate his soul, and he sighs as he closes his eyes and begins to drift off.

He doesn't remember falling asleep. But he knows he's dreaming. A shock of blue and grey, chestnut hair and soft pink lips curled up in a smirk.

It's the first night in years that Steve falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: mentions of verbal abuse and nonconsent

Across town, Bucky is stumbling up to the curb of his apartment building, staring with unfocused eyes at the figure leaning against the railing of the steps. Bucky could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that man perched on the steps; obviously waiting for what could have been hours just to see him for five minutes.

Bucky sighs, tone sharp and irritated. “Brock.”

“ _ Snowflake _ ,” the man–a tall, broad-chested, and dark featured douche named Brock Rumlow– retorts in the same perturbed inflection, nonchalantly fixing the sleeve of his blood red jacket as he eyes Bucky suspiciously.

Bucky cringes. He hates the pet name more than he does the actual person that's using it, but not by much. He would have thought that putting some distance between them for a while would have fixed Rumlow's erratic behavior towards him, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Rumlow never could differentiate between Bucky's A+ acting in bed and how he truly felt about him.

Attachment is something Bucky anticipated when he first started all of this, but Rumlow takes it to a whole different level. At first, it was manageable and Rumlow understood that Bucky would see other clients when he pleased; that there was nothing exclusive going on between them and there never would be. But now... Now those red flags are popping up left and right, and Bucky actually feels uneasy around him. Afraid even.

Sure, Rumlow pays good money to have Bucky fill the empty space in his bed, but the cost that Bucky pays is far too steep to even consider the payout to be worth it.

Bucky's tries not to think about it. Tries to go on with his life and act like Rumlow is just a vivid nightmare. Sometimes that works and Rumlow stays away for a while when he has business to attend to in other states or countries. But he always returns. Sooner or later, he'll always come back for Bucky.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky inquires. “It's late. You know how I feel about clients coming around my home like this.”

Rather than answer the question he’d posed, Rumlow chooses to push himself off of the railing and stalk closer to Bucky like a lion boxing in a gazel. His dark brown eyes are boring into the other man, and there's an obvious agitation that's crawling underneath Rumlow's skin. Bucky knows he's pissed about something, but then again, it never takes much to upset him in the first place. Although, he does seem to view Bucky as both the source of his frustration  _ and _ a means to relieve it, which means that Rumlow isn't here for just a friendly chat.

He wants something specific from Bucky.

The revelation stews in Bucky's gut like curdled milk, and he knows he should have cut Rumlow loose a long time ago, but he hasn't and he won't. Not yet, at least. Not until he has a means to safely do so.

Apprehension aside, Bucky endures it for one specific reason. Rumlow knows about Nat, and he won't hesitate to rat them both out to her Captain if Bucky doesn't play his part. So, he plays along to keep Nat safe. Plain and simple. It's also a good thing that Nat doesn't know about any of this. Who knows what she'd do if she ever saw Rumlow with Bucky. Probably shoot his ass a few times just to drive the point home.

“What's the matter, Snowflake?” Rumlow chides, stalking closer until he's mere inches away from Bucky's flushed face. “Aren't you happy to see me?”

Bucky doesn't answer.

“‘Cause it sure seems like you've been ignoring me. Ghosting me, even. We had a date, you and I, and you stood me up. Again.”

Bucky doesn't move an inch, but the urge to run is becoming overwhelming. Despite how hurt Rumlow sounds at this, Bucky knows that it’s all just a front. He's not really sure if Rumlow can actually feel anything besides physical pain, but he does seem to have a penchant for inflicting that pain upon others in any way he can. It's never usually physical, but Bucky is well aware that Rumlow’s best strategy for attacking others doesn't come from using his fists or the knife he keeps tucked into the back of his left boot.

His forked tongue can wound better than any blade ever could.

“I didn't stand you up. I gave you ample notice that I was canceling tonight. You just have a bad habit of taking things personally.” He snaps.

It wasn't an actual date. Not even close. Rumlow doesn't have a single chivalrous bone in his body, but for some reason, he likes to refer to their sessions as dates, which always makes Bucky’s gut twist uncomfortably. But even if he did want to take Bucky out for whatever reason, Bucky'd rather wallow in pig shit than ever say yes to something like that.

He stays for Nat. Rumlow's shitty personality has nothing to do with it.

“Yeah, I do take it personally.” Rumlow acquiesced with a growl, mouth set in a hard line as his hand darts up to grab the back of Bucky's left arm; fingers digging into the leather of his jacket hard enough to bruise his skin. “Seeing you fawning over that asshole at the bar when you should have been on your knees with my dick down your throat seems pretty fucking personal to me!”

Bucky’s face twists with disgust, using his arms to shove Rumlow back a bit. “You fucking followed me?!”

Rumlow fires back without missing a beat, “You gave me no choice! Not answering my texts or calls for weeks, canceling every other fucking time I try to see you. I knew you were up to something, but  _ this _ —this is low. Even for a whore like you.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, shoving down that uncomfortable pang that steals his breath better than a hit to the gut. Rumlow knows just how much that word unsettles him, and he uses it every chance he can to throw Bucky off kilter. He doesn't mind the fact that he's technically a prostitute, but every time he hears that word in Rumlow's rough and disappointed voice he's suddenly standing in his Ma's kitchen, listening to his parents disown him all over again.

Bucky bites his cheek, averting his gaze down and then to the right as the memory sweeps over his mind once more, and he wants to curl in on himself until he feels small enough to disappear.

Some soldier he is. One little word and he's down for the count.

Rumlow sees the subtle flinch from the word, and he knows he has Bucky right where he wants him. This was never about actually hurting Bucky. It's about control. It's always about control for him.

“Now, here's what's gonna happen, Snowflake.” Rumlow starts, lowering his tone to something that feigns a soothing murmur in the other's ear; moving his body to wrap his strong arm around the back of Bucky's shoulders. “You're gonna apologize for lying, and then you're coming with me to make it up in the only way you can.”

Bucky swallows thickly. “And if I refuse?”

Rumlow chuckles bitterly, pressing the tip of his nose against Bucky's temple as he kisses his cheek lightly. “Now why would you wanna do something like that?”

It's a threat. The specifics are already laid out in front of Bucky, even if Rumlow didn't actually spell it out this time. The new rules of their arrangement are simple and straightforward: Play along or I'll talk.

So he does. But he can't help but think of Steve in this moment. He'd rather be tucked away in Steve's embrace than walking down the sidewalk towards Rumlow's car.

Steve doesn't look like he'd be the cruel type, and for a split second, Bucky thinks of using that phone number he was given as a means to escape Rumlow.

But he doesn't.

_ He can't. _

Bucky mumbles out a half-assed apology, and Rumlow lets his snarky tone slide this time rather than press him for a better one. It's all he's going to get out of him tonight.

Bucky slips into the passenger seat, watching Rumlow's every move as he rounds the front of the SUV and climbs in; all the while staring at Bucky like he's a five-course meal fit for starving man.

Rumlow reclines the seat back a bit, giving Bucky enough room to work without hitting his head on the steering wheel again.

Bucky hesitates, trying to think of something that might soften the experience enough to get him through it. Funny enough, he thinks of Steve.

Steve with his bright blue eyes and honey-blonde hair. That kind smile hidden beneath an unruly beard; thick muscles and a deep voice that could rival granite. It's odd that Steve’s image is giving him comfort in a time like this, but he latches onto it with everything he has as he leans over the center console and begins to work open Rumlow's pants.

It'll be done and over before he knows it, and if he's lucky, Rumlow will leave soon after to crawl back into the hole he exists in whenever Bucky isn't a priority.

He just has to get through the rest of the night and hopefully, Sam will give him a second chance with Steve once he explains that things weren't a total bust as far as the evening went.

Perhaps once he earns the money, he can take Nat and move somewhere that Rumlow can't find them.

Here's to hoping.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve is up and out the door a bit later than he intends. His head is still stuffed with the soft cotton of a good night's sleep, relishing the feather-light sensation that lingers in his chest over the crushing pressure that tends to weigh him down each time he’s begrudgingly pulled back to consciousness.

He had a dream last night, but doesn't recall much of what he dreamt about. There was a feeling of bliss that seemed to have come straight from the marrow of his perpetually weary bones, and a sweet voice that twisted his heart into a knot whenever his name was wrapped up in the soft silk of it. He remembers Bucky, seeing a vision of him lying close in his oversized bed, wearing nothing but that cocksure grin that makes Steve's chest feel tight and fluttery.

It's all he can think about as he laces up his running shoes and slides his phone into the pocket of his navy blue track pants, sighing while he stuffs his ears with earbuds to drown out the sound of his own contentment that’s far too foreign to accept as truth right now.

Music is buzzing in his ears this morning, which is a welcome change from the quiet sounds of nature he normally listens to whilst out for an early morning run. He’s not sure why  _ PVRIS _ is the bop of the day, but his mood is only steadily improving from here on out by the addition of a nice melody. Maybe it has something to do with them being one of Bucky's favorites, along with bands like  _ Green Day _ and  _ Stained _ that he'd casually mentioned over beer less than sixteen hours ago, but Steve doesn't want to think that that's the reason his heart feels so light when he's listening to  _ Lynn Gunn _ bitch about things in that soft voice of her’s.

It's too soon for him to be swooning, but still, he's enjoying how much better he feels after a little self-indulgent fantasy he knows will only ever exist inside his head. Maybe Sam was right all along and Steve just needed to do something selfish and a little reckless to finally pull his head out of the murky depths he's been drowning in for over three years.

But it can't really be that simple, can it?

Steve considers this while his feet hit the pavement, letting his mind travel down that unfamiliar road for a long while.

Steve likes Bucky. That much he's sure of. But the odds of them ever seeing each other again are slim to none, much less for them to somehow start some convoluted romance that’s ripped straight out of  _ Nora Roberts _ novel.

This is stupid.

Thinking like this is how you get yourself hurt, plain and simple. It'd be better for Steve to just leave last night where it ended and move on with his life, but he’s almost afraid to, like the moment he accepts how things really are he'll sink back down into the cold abyss that is his life and succumb to it.

Steve doesn't want to go back to that.

Before, the cold was almost comforting. The silence haunting but familiar. But then he felt joy and tasted laughter on his tongue, and suddenly those frigid arms that held him in a tight embrace for so long were no longer satisfying.

He doesn't want to feel like that anymore.

Steve wants to experience joy again, even if that bitter voice in the back of his head is telling him that he doesn't deserve it and that he never will.

It doesn't help that the voice sounds like Peggy.

Steve runs a little faster, hushing her for a moment while his mind focuses on the burning strain of his muscles and the satisfying beat bumping in his ears.

He's relieved to see Sam leisurely jogging a few yards in front of him, easily identifiable in his grey Air Force sweatshirt and running shorts he usually wears on his biweekly jogs. Steve tugs out the earbuds and pushes himself a bit further; slowly closing the gap between them and coming up right behind Sam’s left shoulder.

He’s talking to someone on the phone, slightly out of breath and giving them curt answers that convey his annoyance, even though he's clearly agreeing with whoever he's talking to.

“Look, man,” he huffs, not yet sensing Steve’s presence that’s a few feet behind him; slowing his pace to remain close enough to hear but not enough to startle Sam and give away the fact that he's eavesdropping. “This isn't what we talked about. You were only supposed to — well, that's great, but —”

Steve is missing a few crucial pieces of the puzzle, but so far he knows that they're negotiating something that Sam is a bit reluctant about. A deal of some sort. Steve doesn't think much of it since Sam is a cop and frequently does shit like this. It doesn't strike him as odd anymore. Sam can handle himself, and if not then his partner Natasha certainly can. He's only met her once a few years back, but he sees how much Sam trusts her to have his back, so Steve doesn't worry so much about it.

“On your left,” Steve mutters breathlessly, making his presence known as he jogs up to Sam's side, grinning wryly at the way Sam's eyes widen then narrow in mock indignation.

He's quick to wrap up the conversation, telling the person on the other line that they'd discuss this in depth at a later time, hanging up and stuffing his phone into the pocket of his shorts with an irritated huff.

Steve doesn't say anything for a few beats, and Sam groans and rolls his eyes because he knows what's coming.

“You look like you're feeling better.” Steve comments. He doesn't appear upset in the least, so Sam makes a noncommittal noise and shrugs.

Steve smirks but remains silent, even going so far as to stick his earbuds back in while he jogs at Sam's slow pace. He doesn't need to fish for answers with Sam. He'll cave in once the silence becomes too suffocating to keep up the charade, and the truth will pour out of his mouth like a waterfall.

To his surprise, Sam lasts a bit longer than he’d first anticipated, and by the time the dam breaks and Sam groans  like he'd just been shot in the leg, they're already resting underneath a large oak tree; with Sam sitting on the ground and Steve staring at him with his hands on his narrow hips.

“Okay, fine, I'll admit it. I lied.” Sam huffs, pressing his back up against the rough bark of the tree trunk while Steve shuts off his music that wasn't even playing; giving Sam a pointed, yet intrigued expression as he waits. 

“You know that receptionist at the VA?”

“The redhead with the lip piercing, Laura?” Steve supplies, arching his brow.

“Lillian, and it's a tongue piercing, not a lip ring. There's a difference, Steve.” Sam corrects with a shake of his head. Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat, urging Sam to go on, even though he already knows what Sam is about to say. “I uh—I finally got my shot with her last night.” And when Steve doesn't make a move to say anything to that, Sam adds a bit panicked, “but it wasn't anything personal against you. You know I love our yearly excursions, when you actually wanna take a break from being a brooding warlock and have some fun.”

Sam's playful expression nearly takes all of the bite out of that statement, but Steve still feels as though he's been lashed by those words, if only just a little bit. He knows how insufferable he can be at times—  _ all the time, _ lately, since he can't seem to shrug off the weighted blanket of grief for more than a few moments at a time. Steve isn't angry at Sam for blowing him off at the last second. He's guilty of doing the same damn thing on multiple occasions, so it'd be pretty hypocritical if he decided to hold a grudge over this.

At least Sam tries to get him out of the house every now and again. When was the last time Steve did something nice for Sam? He's always going out of his way to make sure Steve’s okay, trying to get him back out into the world when all Steve wants to do is to be a depressed recluse.

Although, even without Sam there to hold his hand, Steve still managed to have a great time last night. Despite his effort to try and play matchmaker with Steve on any occasion he can find, it's the one time Sam doesn't have a hand in it that Steve actually meets someone he likes. It's tragically hilarious in a way.

Steve's face twists with some indecipherable emotion for a split second, but before Sam can even attempt to backtrack or apologize for what he’d said, Steve is softly laughing like he’d just heard a funny anecdote.

Sam is more than just a little confused, arching his brow with obvious notes of concern weaved into his bewildered expression. “Did I miss the joke? What the hell's so funny?”

Steve stiffles another wave of the giggles, shaking his head like that would somehow knock the thought lose from his brain.

“S’nothin’,” he says, grinning at nothing in particular as he moves to sit on the ground next to Sam. “Just, I met someone last night. All those years of failed set-ups, and all it really took to get me out of my shell was you being a selfish prick. Who'da thunk, right?”

Sam goes very still for a moment, schooling his expression into neutrality before a small smile breaks out across his face and he's bumping his shoulder into Steve's. They're both chuckling now, looking at each other with something that speaks louder than words ever could. It makes Steve feel like his chest is full of helium, and any second now he's gonna float away into the clouds and burst.

“That's how it is, hm? Spiteful bastard. I hope the sex was shit.” Sam hums, giving Steve a knowing look, and Steve can't help but tease him a little over this.

“Oh, that's how it is.” Steve playfully jeers. “But we didn't—I didn't feel right inviting him back to the house just yet. You know how I am, Sam. I can't do the whole random hookup thing anymore. Peggy—eh, nevermind. I’m not gonna—I'm actually having a good day. As rare as those are. I'll save that thought for another day.”

_ Peggy sort of ruined me for anyone else. _ Was what Steve was going to say, and Sam was grateful that Steve stopped himself from digging into that wound all on his own, no help required at all.

The silence that fell between them soon after was comfortable, and Sam took a moment to really look at Steve while the other was lost in thought. He looked...better. Better than he had in a long time.

Admittedly, Sam was more than a little disappointed to hear that Bucky hadn't exactly fulfilled his end of the bargain. He was hired to take Steve to bed and make him happy, not yak his ear off and play twenty questions. But, he couldn't deny that whatever went on between them last night, the end result had Steve daydreaming like a love-sick teenager. So, in theory, Bucky did do what he was set out to do, just without any sex involved. Sam could just leave it at that and pay Bucky what he was owed, but the fact that Steve just looks so damn happy is making him shove that thought far away.

Steve would want to see him again, and Bucky  _ did _ ask for a second chance to literally charm the pants off of Steve. Perhaps something tangible could come from this after all? Even if it doesn't last past one night, it could give Steve the boost he needs to start over after losing Peg. It's a nice thought, at least. Stupid, but nice.

Sam breaks the silence after a few breaths. “So, you gonna see him again–or was this just a one-time thing?”

“Dunno, honestly. We hit it off pretty well, but I don't think he's ever gonna call me. Ball's in his court, you know? All I can do is wait and see if I made a good enough impression.” Steve says, idly playing with a blade of grass between his fingers, almost like he's anxious about it. “But, it did feel nice to be noticed—seen as more than just someone to pity. He didn't know a thing about me, but he thought that I was someone worth the effort to talk to at least. He did it because he wanted to. Not because someone else wanted him to. That was part of the reason I never enjoyed those blind double dates. None of it was genuine, Sam.”

Sam hums that he understands, even though that stings a bit more than he’d expected. It wasn't Bucky's job to get Steve's number, but he has it anyway. None of his other attempts to get Steve back out there have worked, say for this one, because Bucky was acting like he wanted Steve of his own volition.

Bucky did his job. Steve took a risk on his own and put himself out there because he thought Bucky was genuinely interested. This could turn sour very quickly, but Sam can't help but feel that Steve deserves a little more for his trouble than just a good conversation.

He'll allow Bucky one more chance to fulfill his contract, pay him what he's owed if he’s successful, then sever all contact afterward. Whatever happens after that is on them, but Bucky already stated that he’d be gone once the contract was terminated. He knows what he's doing. Sam just has to take a step back and let him do it.

Sam stands, brushing off his shorts and offering a hand to Steve; helping him to his feet.

“Who knows, man.” He shrugs, leading them back onto the running path and towards their usual breakfast spot to grab some coffee. “Don't read too much into things. It’ll be what it’ll be, but that doesn't mean that you can't enjoy it while it lasts. He'll call. He'd be an idiot to pass you up.”

“You think so?” Steve murmurs.

“I know so.”

  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

The next few days were a bit of a blur. At times they'd seem to fly by faster than lightning, and others, the hours would screech to a slow crawl that was like molasses in the winter time. It didn't exactly help that Nat wasn't around much to distract him, chasing leads for a case she couldn't talk about. Which also meant that Sam was unavailable for the foreseeable future, ultimately leaving Bucky out in limbo regarding Steve. 

That, in and of itself, was an issue. The last time that Bucky had spoken to Sam about the contract was on Saturday morning after his run with Steve. It was now Thursday. The resulting hour-long conversation that took place afterward was more or less just Sam constantly doubting his motives and if this really was the best course of action to help Steve crawl out of the grave he'd been digging for himself. Regardless of Bucky's counter-arguments, Sam wasn't convinced any longer that he'd be able to give Steve what he was really looking for, and the fact that he could see just how much Steve was desperately clinging to his ‘chance meeting’ with Bucky had all but driven the nails in the coffin. 

As of right now, the contract was on hold until Sam had a chance to think about things and consider the repercussions of his actions. He'd also paid Bucky half of the discussed amount, despite the fact that nothing had really happened between them. It wasn't a total loss, but Bucky couldn't help but feel severely disappointed in himself for failing to get the job done like he'd promised Sam he would. Sam trusted him to take care of Steve, who was wounded and deserved something good to happen for once in his life. Bucky’d let them both down, and the weight of his failure rested in his chest so heavily that he could feel it in his sleep–however little of it he was getting lately.

Of course, just because Bucky had potentially lost a client didn't mean that he’d lost them all. On the contrary, Bucky still had to uphold his scheduled session for the week with his regular client–a quiet and reserved man by the name of Jack Rollins, with rectangular features and an inner dominant personality that’d make Christian Grey seem tame by comparison,–and the new guy, Jasper Sitwell, that was a hell of a lot more submissive than Bucky’d ever thought he'd be, given that he was a big shot on Wall Street and had a rather smart mouth on him.

It wasn't like Bucky was hurting for work. He had more than enough to keep him busy and his bank account filled to keep him afloat, but it was the mere thought of failure that was driving him up the damn wall. He couldn't stop himself from going over the night he'd met Steve, again and again, analyzing every second he could recall to see where he'd missed his opportunity to take things further. 

There were a few moments here and there that stood out a bit, but nothing that ever led him to believe that if he'd tried something ballsy then that it would’ve ended the way he'd wanted things to. In all honesty, Bucky was far too engrossed with trying to appear genuine that at one point he'd caught himself dropping the mask he was hiding behind altogether.

There was just something about Steve that wouldn't let him move the way he was used to. All of that false bravado and charm he'd used against the others didn't work on Steve, and Bucky was left in a place that both challenged him and, quite frankly, terrified him.

But, as fate would have it, Bucky was a stubborn son of a bitch and wouldn't let this go until either God or Sam Wilson told him to stand down. He owed it to himself and Steve to see this through, and he'd damn well make sure that Steve was whistling Dixie by the time he was done with him. It wasn't just about earning the rest of the money and getting the hell out of Brooklyn (and frankly, away from Rumlow’s crazy ass) any longer. Bucky was doing this for his pride as well.

 

**

Bucky takes a slow drag from his smoldering cigarette, thanking God above that he’d done a good enough job at hiding his pack of Marlboro Reds from Natasha; who was under the false assumption that he’d kicked the habit a few months ago.

In his defense, he only smokes when he’s stressed beyond what yoga and kickboxing can help relieve, and those instances are far and few in between. Regardless, he can't deny that the smooth flavor coating his tongue and throat doesn't soothe that restlessness that makes him feel like he’s vibrating right out of his damn skin.

His sneakered shoes hit the sidewalk, muscles pleasantly aching and hair still damp and tied into a sloppy bun from his quick shower at the gym. He feels a little better now that he's burned off some of that negative energy, but his mind is still swirling with anxiety over Rumlow and this shit with Sam and Steve that never quite seems to fade away completely.

The music bumping in his ears is more irritating than anything, and as he rounds the street corner, approaching the crosswalk near Stark tower; gym bag haphazardly slung over his shoulders, he all but knocks the lady in front of him over, unable to focus on much with all that noise in his head, much less the fact that all pedestrian traffic has stopped.

The woman turns, leveling a glare and spitting harsh words at him that Bucky couldn't hear thanks to the music actively drowning out the sound of her voice. He shrugs, throwing a half-sincere apology at her which only seemed to make her angrier. Not that Bucky really gave two shits about the things she had to say.

Before anything else could happen, the woman turned back around, walking with the rest of traffic and weaving her way through the crowd to get as far away from Bucky as she could.  _ Good _ .

Bucky reaches his destination a few moments later, taking one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out under his shoe and striding into the small bakery he normally visits after his sessions at the gym. He knows that stuffing his face with sugar and grease is counterproductive to his workout, but fuck it. He wants his damn Bearclaw and no one is going to stop him from getting it.

That thought, however, turns to ash the moment he enters the building and spots a very familiar head of honey-blonde hair standing in line near the front.

Bucky swallows thickly, silently cursing himself for indulging in that cigarette just then. Nothing is more off-putting than smelling like an ashtray, much less tasting like one.

_ Fuck _ . He has the worst possible luck imaginable.

Of course he'd end up running into Steve  _ fucking _ Rogers looking like a bum living under the overpass and smelling like car exhaust and misery.

Bearclaw be damned, Bucky has to get the hell out of here before Steve sees him looking like this. But just before he can move to slide out of his place in line and make a bee-line for the door, he hears his name uttered in that deep and gravelly tone that could only belong to Steve.

Christ, he could probably pick that voice out of a lineup by now, since his brain has seen fit to torture him with it any chance it could.

“Bucky?” Steve calls out, and Bucky can’t help but shift uncomfortably where he stands in line, forcing his gaze to meet the icy blue of Steve's eyes.

He'd almost forgotten how gorgeous they are in person.

Bucky flashes him a sheepish grin, wiggling his fingers in greeting and silently unleashing a slew of curses in his head. Steve’s eyes flit down to take in Bucky's appearance, which is slightly disheveled but no less appealing than the last time he saw him. He’s dressed in deep red leggings that don't hide much to the naked eye as far as how thick Bucky's thighs are. The navy blue running shorts and long sleeve compression top is keeping him just the right shade of modest, but Steve is finding it incredibly difficult to tear his eyes away from how tightly they cling to his body.

And yet, at the same time, Bucky is taking in the wonderful sight of Steve Rogers decked out to the nine in a tan suit that does funny things to Bucky's lungs.

When had he stopped breathing? And why was Steve looking at him like he wants to eat him with a spoon? Surely he must think that Bucky looks like warmed over garbage, especially when he himself is dressed like  _ that _ .

Oddly enough, Steve isn't the only one looking at him.

The entire line of customers and even the girls behind the counter are now staring at him oddly, and it's only then that he figures out the reason why.

Steve is holding up the damn line, and these two are making eyes at each other like a couple of love-sick teens.

Bucky clears his throat, nodding his head toward the counter to try and pull Steve back to the present. It works, more or less, and Steve tears his eyes away from Bucky and flushes a few interesting shades of red once he notices his blunder. Bucky looks down at the floor, trying and failing to focus on the pattern of the tile below his feet rather than the different sets of eyes that are boring into the back of his head from the nosy people behind him.

He can hear Steve's apology, followed by his order of a coffee and, yup, you guessed it, a Bearclaw. Because of course he'd order that and make things difficult for Bucky, who's already gnawing on the inside of his cheek while thoughts of tearing Steve out of that suit pour into his filthy mind.

God fucking damn it. Why does he have to look so  _ yummy _ in that getup? _He can just picture himself sucking the pastry icing from Steve's fingers just like he would suck the cream straight out of Steve's deliciously fat—_

Time jumps forward jarringly, and before he really knows what's happening, Bucky has his own sugary, fattening delight in his hands, heading toward the little table near the back where Steve is sitting like a fish hooked on a line. Steve is eyeing him curiously, and Bucky's insides melt when a little smile curls up the sides of Steve's mouth.

“Good choice,” Steve says, and Bucky has no idea what the fuck he's even talking about until his addled brain slowly connects the dots. It’s embarrassing how much Steve affects him in person. Bucky can plan and plot his method of attack in his head all he wants when he's alone, but the second he sees those gorgeous blue eyes he's lost and suddenly unable to string together words to form a coherent sentence.

Steve must have noticed the look of initial confusion that flashed in Bucky's eyes, but he only widens his smile in response, like he considered Bucky’s befuddlement to be cute or something. Which it is. It absolutely is.

Bucky sits across from him, finally able to pull his head out of his own ass for a second to respond to that. “Yeah, I come here most days I'm in the area, which just so happens to be gym days. I figure I deserve a reward for kickin’ ass and stuff. Ya know, like positive reinforcement.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“So far so good,” Bucky smirks, taking a bite of his Bearclaw and making a point to thoroughly lick the icing from his lips. “Half the time I only go to the damn gym just so I can reward myself afterward.”

Steve's eyes dart back up from their place on Bucky's lips, rolling his eyes playfully to disguise the fact that he was shamefully staring. “If it ain't broke, right?”

“Damn straight. A little sugar never hurt anyone.”

Steve hums in agreement, far too busy with the mental image of Bucky stretching in those skin-tight leggings to follow up with anything else. Silence was soon to slither its way in between them, and Bucky turns his attention momentarily toward his Bearclaw and steaming cup of green tea while Steve anxiously fidgets with his napkin. Both are trying to find the right thing to say regarding their previous meeting at the bar, but once again, it’s Steve that beats Bucky to the punch and says something first, catching the other off guard while he pops the last bite of sugary goodness into his mouth to keep himself from saying something stupid.

“I–uh, had fun the other night–with you,” Steve stammers, looking a bit unsure of himself as he glances up at Bucky, who’s nervously tracing the lip of his teacup with a finger. “At the bar, I mean.” He adds as if that would help clarify which meeting he was referring to.

Bucky seems surprised nonetheless, squawking out a bewildered “really?” before countering with a smooth “I did too,” to cover his fleeting insecurities. Strangely enough, he's not lying. Bucky did have fun talking with Steve, even though he had a specific reason for doing so. It's not unusual for Bucky to enjoy his line of work, but his reaction to Steve just comes from such a different place within him that he finds himself losing sight of the ‘mission’ every now and again. Steve makes him feel like a giddy sixteen-year-old trying to talk to his crush, and it's a little unsettling to actually think about why that is.

Steve huffs out what sounded like a relieved sigh, and Bucky can only watch as the other man places his hand on the table, deliberately setting it flush against his own. “S'actually been the highlight of my week, if I'm being completely honest here. Meeting you was...eye-opening, I guess.”

“I'm glad I made a good impression on you.” Bucky murmurs, trying to ignore the urge he feels that's begging him to wrap his hand around Steve's. “Which reminds me. I meant to reach out to you afterward, but—”

“It's alright. You don't have to explain anything to me. You don't owe me a thing, Bucky. I wanted you to have my number, but you never have to actually use it for anything. It was a gesture of goodwill, you know? Like I liked what I saw and wanted to get to know you, which is pretty out of character for me these days. I tend to keep to myself most of the time.”

Bucky’d already surmised that from what Sam had said, but still, Steve was trying to step out of his comfort zone. It actually makes his chest feel tight with pride for some odd reason. Maybe he's just happy for the guy. Who really knows?

He smiles, letting Steve continue even though he wants to reassure him that he likes Steve's company as well. But he's not sure if saying something like that would give Steve the wrong impression about what he wants as far as their relationship goes. Even though Steve is a gorgeous man and Bucky'd like nothing more than to earn his affections, he has to remember that Steve is just a client and he can't get involved emotionally. He's not even sure if talking to Steve without Sam's approval is taking things too far already, but Bucky can't be blamed if Steve was the one to initiate things, right?

Steve draws in a shaky breath, taking yet another bold leap of faith even though that pessimistic voice in the back of his head is chiding him for even considering this. But before he can dwell on how right that voice is, the words are rushing from his mouth like a gust of wind.

“Would you like to go out sometime? With me, I mean.” Bucky is looking at him like he’d just sprouted another head, and Steve is suddenly panicking, thinking that he'd just crossed a line from which there is no return. Was Bucky even into men? Into him in that way? “I-It’s just a thought. It's okay if you aren't interested or if you're not...like  _ that _ . I just wanted to have the chance to get to know you, if you'll let me. Whaddya say, Buck? Will you give me a chance to know you?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kudos, comments, and support you guys have given this fic. This (as I've mentioned before) is my first ever attempt at writing SteveBucky or Stucky, and your lovely comments and support have inspired me to try my hand at a more canon- typical version of them, called I Can't Forget You. Check it out if you'd like, and enjoy this early chapter.

The silence between them stretches out to what feels like an eternity for Steve, and if Bucky's expression is anything to go by, he's not exactly expecting a positive response to his rather innocent proposition. Perhaps he did misread Bucky's body language or interpreted the things he'd said in a way that would support Steve's wants and desires, and he begins to feel guilt churn in his belly for putting Bucky in such an awkward position like this.

In Bucky's defense, he was a little disarmed by the sudden request. It's not that he doesn't want to take Steve up on his offer (quite the contrary, actually), it's just he's not sure how he should even approach such a thing. In the wake of his silence, he's quickly weighing the pros and cons of accepting Steve's proposal, and what that will do to their ‘relationship’ if he says yes.

If a bigger, more blatant excuse for Bucky to pursue Steve on his own was offered, he wouldn't be able to ignore it any more than the one presented to him now. In fact, Steve was basically giving Bucky the green-light to go after him.

He wants to. God, he  _ wants _ to. Steve wants him to. But what if Sam doesn't?

Sam is the only piece of the equation that's holding Bucky's tongue, but his mind is quick to find a rational solution to that little problem.

Steve never explicitly said that he wanted to  _ date _ Bucky (not specifically in that exact terminology). He asked to get to know him. There's a huge difference, and yes, Bucky knows that he's just picking and choosing what he wants to take from Steve's offer, but it makes him feel a little better about the whole thing. So sue him if he’s trying to find a few loopholes here and there. He's only human.

Yes, the contract is on hold.

Yes, Bucky is technically supposed to have Sam's consent for going after Steve.

Yes, Bucky knows that this is a very bad idea and that things will quickly spiral out of his control, probably landing them both in hot water.

But the chance to actually do something nice for Steve; to do what he originally set out to do, was just too tempting for him to resist. Steve deserves to have something good happen in his life, because Bucky knows all too well how it feels to be lost and forgotten. No, he hasn't experienced grief on the same level as Steve, and he hopes he never has to, but that doesn't mean he hasn't tasted the bitter fruit of loss before. He could make Steve happy. He could finally use his questionable talents to put a well-deserved and satisfied smile on this poor man's frowning face.

Sam will understand. If he's half the friend he claims to be, he won't hold it against Bucky for taking matters into his own hands, especially when Steve was the one pursuing him.

And if he does have an issue with it, well, then that's something Future Bucky will have to deal with, and deal with it he will. But for right now, Present Bucky has his eyes on the prize, and the prize is Steve Rogers.

His answer finally comes after maybe five seconds of silence, but it might as well have been five minutes, because Steve is starting to sweat with anxiety and Bucky can feel the tension in the air like humidity before a storm.

Steve nearly misses the little “I'd love to,” that comes out of Bucky's mouth, but his heart was clearly way ahead of his brain in terms of giving a response to it; kicking like a mule against his ribs and stuttering for a quick second. The smile that spreads his plump lips was next, and then the relieved little chuckle that suddenly became a sigh of content was last.

_ Wait, what? _

_ He actually said yes? _

Steve blinks with disbelief, eyes owlish and mouth slightly parted. He didn't just imagine that, right?

Based on the way that Bucky is smiling at him with hearts in his eyes, he doesn't think he did.

“Wait, really?” Steve gapes, cheeks lighting up with a blush that's mirrors on Bucky's own face. “I–uh–... _ wow _ .”

Bucky can't help but laugh. “Yes, really. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, I–you’re–I mean..why would you even want to? Not that I  _ don't _ want you to, It's just–you're gorgeous and I'm–”

“A stud?” Bucky supplies. “A very handsome and interesting man that I'd be happy to get to know?”

Steve's blush deepens, and he ducks his head to try and escape the look that Bucky is giving him. It’s the nicest scolding he's ever received, and in that moment, Bucky reminds him of Peggy.

“Don't sell yourself short, Steve.” Bucky sweetly chides. “I may not know you all that well right now, but I can see that you've got a good heart. You're a very sweet man, and you're easy on the eyes too. I'd have to be an idiot to say no to this.”

And there it is. Sam said the exact same thing a few days ago, and Steve had just as much trouble believing it then as he does now, and he's hearing it straight from the horse's mouth. Bucky clearly doesn't know how fucked up Steve really is on the inside. He's a bunch of shattered glass that's been sloppily glued back together, and eventually, he's gonna break apart again.

That image of  _ Frankenstein's Monster _ flashes before his eyes once again, but he can feel the first few threads around his stitched up heart coming loose. He's not sure if it's a good thing or not, but Bucky is ever so slowly plucking out the strings that bind him, leaving room for something more to squeeze its way inside of his vacant chest. It's almost painful, but in a bittersweet sort of way.

“M'sorry,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky just nods. He understands. “It's been a while, and I'm not sure if I remember how to do this. It probably doesn't help that just looking at you is making my heart race. Kinda makes me feel like I'm sixteen again.”

“You’re such a sap, Steve.”

Steve's eyes snap up to meet Bucky's, but there's nothing there that would relay any sort of malice.

“But you're a cute sap,” Bucky adds, smirking adoringly. “And let's just say that you're not alone in this. How you're feeling, I mean. Believe it or not, I'm just as rusty with this sort of stuff as you are.”  _ That's the understatement of the fucking century. _ “But, we can be awkward dorks together, ya know? No expectations. Just let it flow the way it wants to flow. So, I feel no shame whatsoever in saying that it's highly illegal for you to be wearing something like  _ that _ .” He gestures to Steve's suit with a nod. “I mean,  _ my God _ , are you trying to give me a heart attack? Fuckin’ punk, with your nice suit and pretty eyes. How dare you insult me like this.”

Bucky didn't think that Steve’s blush could possibly get any worse than it already was. He was dead wrong.

“Wha–me?!” He balks, feigning offense. “Excuse you, jerk, but you're just as guilty. You should be arrested for attempted murder, because you nearly killed me with that getup you've got going on.  _ I'm _ the victim here, just minding my own business, trying to get some lunch, and here you come to ruin my day.”

Bucky chokes on his own laughter, and even he's surprised at how natural their little verbal sparring match is. It's actually not even an act. Bucky is 100% just being himself in this moment, and it's not as scary as he thought It’d be.

Steve appears to be having a similar sort of reaction to how sharp Bucky's tongue is, and he finds that he likes it. A little too much, maybe. His flush is starting to spread down his chest, and his heart is drumming rapidly to the beat of their unique dance.

“I don't see any cops on duty around here.” Bucky purrs, his voice dropping a few octaves just to be a little shit about it. “Looks like you'll have to take me in yourself, if you can.”

Steve nearly swallows his tongue, but he's quick to recover. “I can and I will. If I’m remembering correctly, and I am, I outrank you,  _ Sergeant _ .”

Okay, that did some unexpected things to Bucky’s brain, because he feels like it just short-circuited. Steve is using what Bucky can only describe as his captain’s voice, and his mind is suddenly back in basic, listening to his NCO chew his ass out. It's...oddly thrilling.

Bucky throws a half-assed salute at Steve and rolls his eyes, trying to mask his arousal with mock annoyance but his dilated pupils are already giving him away. “ _ Oh, captain, my captain. _ ” He sighs. “Asshole.”

Steve can't hide his grin, even if he wants to. Bucky is such a breath of fresh air, and his quick wit and sharp tongue are oddly addicting.

He wants more. So much more.

A quick glance down to his watch spoils the moment in a heartbeat, just like it had the last time, because Steve's lunch hour is up and he has to go. Reality is always there, looming over his shoulder to shove him out of his protective bubble as soon as the moment presents itself. Bucky looks just as upset that their moment has to end, but he doesn't say anything, just nods when Steve says that he has to head back to work.

“If you want–” Steve starts, cleaning up his end of the table. “ _ If you want _ , you're welcome to use that number I gave you. I certainly wouldn't be upset about it or anything.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe I will.” Bucky retorts, giving Steve his trademark boyish grin and a wink. “Might have to rethink things a bit...since you were so rude n’ all,”

“Alright, asshole.” Steve scoffs, standing up and tossing his trash into the nearby receptacle. His brash demeanor abruptly shifts, and his expression is now painfully earnest. “I look forward to hearing from you, Buck.”

It takes everything within Bucky to not show how much that simple statement touches him, but he's sure that Steve can probably already read that in the smile he's giving in return.

“Might be sooner than you think, Stevie.”

“I hope so.”

Bucky doesn't have anything snappy to say back to that to keep up the playful inflection. Steve is far too sincere for his own good, and he's gonna end up getting hurt if he doesn't learn to guard himself a little better. Bucky almost feels guilty for taking Steve up on his offer.  _ Almost _ .

Steve gives Bucky's shoulder a squeeze, taking the quiet moment for what it is and leaving the cafe a moment later. Bucky doesn't move from his spot right away. He can still feel the lingering touch on his shoulder, and he wonders why his heart feels so conflicted about it. This means nothing. Steve is just another client and Bucky has to remember that.

It doesn't mean anything. This is just a game they're playing, but Steve is playing for keeps and Bucky isn't.

For now, at least.


	11. Chapter 11

True to his word, Bucky's incoming text comes through about four hours after Steve had left the bakery. Steve wasn't sure why he’d decided to wait so damn long (wasn't like he was dying of anticipation or anything. That's just absurd.) Or why he chose to open up a line of dialog with “ _Hey doll. Can I getcha number?”_ but he ultimately decides that it’s just a part of Bucky's unique style of flirting.

Steve is smiling down at his phone with the stupidest grin, blue eyes bright and crinkled at the sides. It's been too long since he's smiled this way; cheeks aching and chest tight. It feels good. Better than he remembers even.

“ _Don't think you deserve it, sweetheart,_ ” was Steve's sassy reply, and he couldn't help but laugh at the string of crying emojis and broken hearts that came back in response.

Damn, Steve was in big trouble if he was already _this_ invested in Bucky. Who really knows what's going to happen between them after the newness fades and life goes on like it always has. Like he's always said, happiness is just a fleeting concept and fickle to boot. What makes them happy now might not be the same thing a few months from today. Years pass and their bond starts to flake away like old paint baking in the summer heat, tearing them apart slowly.

Or this could be one of the best things that ever happens to them. You never know when something unexpected will happen and trigger a chain of events, either destroying you or raising you up once the dust settles. This could be Steve's chance to finally break free from his suffocating grief. He could be happy. _They_ could be happy. _Together._

Steve pauses, fingers poised over the keypad and ready to punch out yet another witty reply. But he doesn't say a thing. He suddenly can't because Peggy's deep brown eyes are boring into him, casting judgment at him from the photo sitting near the edge of his work desk.

 _You don't deserve it, you selfish coward_.

Steve winces, hearing those nasty words in her disapproving voice. It's not that he actually thinks that Peggy would browbeat him and wish misery upon him if she were still here. Peggy loved him with all of her heart, but it's the only way that he can hurt himself without wearing the evidence on his skin. Steve hates himself for what happened to Peggy–for what he let happen, and it will take something truly powerful for him to ever be able to move on from that crushing guilt.

Bucky can't replace Peggy. No one can, nor should they. But Steve isn't trying to replace her. He just wants to find a small piece of paradise amongst the raging storm inside his heart. Just a little bit of sunshine to brighten up all the grey. Bucky can do that, and he’s done a wonderful job of providing Steve with something he never thought he'd have again. Joy.

It’s the same in a different sort of way for Bucky. He's not used to feeling that raw connection that comes from finding someone truly compatible. Granted, it's not like he's been trying to do much else besides have fun and earn money. Steve presents an interesting challenge for him, and he's chillingly excited to dive off that cliff into wherever this relationship will lead them. He's just having an issue staying in character sometimes. It's terrifying, but undoubtedly fun to interact with Steve the way he naturally wants to.

Bucky wants more of him, and Steve wants more of Bucky. They're basically feeding off of each other at this point.

Bucky bites his bottom lip, staring down at the screen of the burner phone he uses when contacting clients. It helps to remind him what he is and what they really want from him if they're kept separate from his personal life. Work is still work, but it can be fun. That's all this is. Work. Even if it doesn't necessarily feel like it when he's openly flirting with Steve.

Five minutes ticks by slowly like sand in an hourglass, and Bucky finds himself growing unexpectedly anxious when Steve doesn't reply. He nearly forgets that Nat is somewhere in the apartment, wandering off towards his room to absentmindedly grab his second cigarette of the day. He just needs to busy his hands with something that keeps him from shooting off another message to Steve. He's probably just busy with work or something. He'll respond when he wants to. Crowding Steve is only going to make him look desperate.

Bucky has his hand in the bottom drawer of his dresser, fishing out a loose cigarette from the pack stuffed under his clothes and feeling his shorts pocket for the lighter that's still in there somewhere. He should have known that he couldn't hide shit from Natasha for very long. It was only a matter of time before she'd catch him in the act.

“That's called lying, you know.” Comes a soft yet commanding voice from behind him.

Bucky rips his hand out of the drawer as if it'd just bit his fingers, dropping the loose cigarette on the floor by his shoes with a loud curse; hand now gripping his chest tightly. Nat is leaning against the doorframe, dressed in a crisp white button-down blouse and dark grey pants that hug her thighs a little too perfectly. Black heels complete the look of a well dressed professional, but the badge clipped to her belt and the holster on her right hip are telling a different story. She's not someone you ever wanna fuck with.

Bucky swallows thickly, effectively dislodging his heart from his throat in the process. “According to you and Clint, it's called compartmentalization.” He says curtly, tossing a glare her way that does little to dissuade her from pressing further into Bucky's bedroom.

“Mm,” She hums, arching her brow; arms crossed and feet firmly planted before him. This can't be good. “So, this thing with Steve, were you planning to tell Sam that you'd gone rogue, or where you just gonna compartmentalize that as well?”

 _Shit._ How'd she even know about that? Nothing was set in stone. Bucky didn't say a word to anyone about running into Steve, so how in the hell did Nat seem to already know the half-baked plan currently cooking inside of Bucky's head?

“Wha–I don't understand–Nat, I'm not–”

“Don't you dare insult me by lying to my face again, Barnes.” She clips in her no-nonsense tone that shuts Bucky up as soon as he hears it. She must have seen him while he was out today and put two and two together. Bucky was so lost in thought that he probably didn't even notice her. Wherever she was. Now that he thinks about it, she could have been in the bakery and Bucky would have never known with how engrossed he was in conversation with Steve. Fuck.

“Were you going to tell him that you saw Steve today?” She asks and Bucky nods because he _was_ going to fill Sam in as soon as he was able to. Maybe after the deed was already done, but she doesn't need to know about that part.

“It wasn't like it was planned. Jus’ sorta happened, Nat. Besides, Steve was the one that sought me out, not the other way around.” He defends, though he can't really read Nat's expression to see if she's buying his excuse or not. “It's nothing special. Just..you know…” Bucky shrugs to accent his lack of words on the matter, and he's praying to God that she's not about to murder him right here and now for lying to her face. _Twice._

Nat is silent for a moment, pursing her lips that suddenly quirk up at the side to form that knowing smirk she wears so well; green eyes softening a bit. Based on Bucky's microexpressions and how defensive and closed off his body language is, Nat can accurately deduce what became of Bucky's random meet up this afternoon, and it's just delightful.

She can't even begin to hide the amusement in her voice when she asks, “Are you going on a date with Steve, James?”

“Date? Wha–no!” Bucky squeaks a bit too vehemently, and Nat's smile grows into something that makes him squirm under her scrutinizing gaze. Dates remind him of Rumlow, and he's not quite ready to deal with that utter bullshit today. Not when the bastard has been suspiciously quiet lately. “It's _not_ a date. I just wanted to get ahead of the curve, maybe do something nice for the poor guy. We're just ‘getting to know each other’, Nat. Besides, I'm not doing anything that Sam and I haven't previously discussed.”

“Oh? I thought the contract was on hold.” Nat answers, calling him out on his bullshit straight away. “But, there's no harm in keeping his interest up in case Sam reconsiders. That's the excuse I think you're going for, correct? Wouldn't want Steve to forget all about you.”

Bucky can feel his skin becoming uncomfortably tight, and that cigarette is practically calling out his name like a siren at sea. Nat is far too insightful and smart for Bucky to even try and bullshit her on this one. She knows there's something fishy about his motives, and even though he's desperately trying to maintain the lie that he's only in it for _this or that_ , he can't deny that there is something simmering underneath the surface that has nothing to do with money or escaping Rumlow or some shit about doing this exclusively for Steve's benefit. Bucky selfishly wants this for himself too, and that's the truth that he's trying to avoid like the plague. But Nat isn't letting him avoid it right now.

It doesn't help that he can hear the lie in his own voice. “It doesn't mean anything, Nat. Steve means nothing to me.”

“With that attitude, yeah. I would suspect so.” She retorts with a roll of her eyes. “How do you expect this to be anything when you don't try to make it anything?”

“I don't follow–?”

“Yes, you do.” Nat corrects, leaving no room for argument. What the hell does that even mean? Bucky doesn't want this to become something more. At least he thinks he doesn't. “But, you're in luck. Sam is pretty much blissfully unaware of whatever harebrained scheme you're working out with Steve. It's not my place to tell him what’s going on. It's yours. When the time is right, you'll tell him what he needs to know. That goes for Steve as well, Jame. I don't give a damn about your contract with Sam. But if things start moving in a different direction I expect that you’ll be upfront with Steve and tell him the truth. You can only lie to him and yourself for so long.”

Bucky can't even bring himself to look at her right now, especially when the second she stops talking his phone dings with a reply from Steve.

 _“Dinner tomorrow night?”_ Is what Steve asks, and Bucky feels like he’s about to be sick. Would he even have the balls to look Steve in the eye and tell him that everything was a fucking lie? He doesn't think he can. But, Natasha is right. If things don't go as planned and Bucky can't do this properly, then Steve deserves to know upfront that he's not who he says he is. Sam will be pissed and Bucky will lose out on another two grand, but Steve should matter more than that anyway. This is his life that they're fucking up on purpose and he doesn't deserve that.

“Promise me you'll do the right thing, James. That's all I want to hear from you.” Nat quietly pleads, reaching out and gently taking Bucky by the hand. “Don't hurt him if you can help it.”

Bucky grimaces, knowing that she's right like always. But he has this under control. Everything will be just fine. “I promise, Nat.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! Hope you guys enjoy their little date night ❤

Of course Bucky agrees to have dinner with Steve the following evening, letting Steve pick the time and place and agreeing to meet him there via taxi cab. He has no clue where he's going since Steve insists upon giving him the runaround whenever he asks. Bucky knows that he can just Google the damn address and figure it out that way, that he's actually kind of enjoying the little bit of mystery that's there before the big reveal comes. It's fun. Sort of like going on an adventure or something, even though they're just heading out to grab a bite to eat.

Although, not knowing what type of atmosphere he's about to walk into makes picking out a sensible outfit even harder than it already is. Nat can't help but throw her two cents in, picking out a dark pair of jeans (that could look dressy if paired with the right top) and a simple, soft grey sweater with a bright red jacket over top of it. She also suggests that he leave his hair down for this occasion, but Bucky makes sure to slide a hair tie around his wrist before dashing out of the apartment; ignoring Nat's playful teasing to behave himself as best he can.

Bucky descends the stairs leading out to the sidewalk, pulling out his burner phone and checking the last message he'd received from Steve which had the time they were supposed to meet and the address of the place. With his nose buried in his phone, Bucky barely notices that there's a figure standing on the opposite side of the street; silently watching him as he hails a cab. He can feel the hair on the back of his neck begin to stand on end, and his stomach is quick to fill with the heavy weight of dread that comes with the sensation of having unseen eyes on him. His head snaps up, eyes desperately scanning the sidewalk opposite his own to find the culprit. But he can't see anyone that stands out in a suspicious way. Whoever was watching him is long gone, taking the uneasiness that ran down Bucky's spine with them.

Bucky's mind turns to Brock. He's been uncharacteristically quiet these past few days, and Bucky isn't sure what to make of it, but whatever the reason, he's just happy to finally have a little peace and quiet for once. However, he can't shake the feeling that Brock is up to something that involves him. The mere thought of it twists his stomach in a knot, but it's not like he can call the cops and report him. That will earn him and Natasha a one-way ticket to the clink once their extracurriculars are exposed for what they truly are.

He'll just have to suck it up and deal with it. Whatever  _ it _ is.

The taxi pulls up to the curb and Bucky’s abruptly pulled from his thoughts, sliding into the backseat and giving the driver the address in place of an actual greeting. He should be there right at nine, which doesn't really give him much time to quell the raging storm of anxiety that's making him break out into a cold sweat in the back of a cab that smells like old Chinese takeout.

Bucky rakes a hand through his soft hair, blowing out a puff of air as his leg nervously bounces in a way that must be irritating to the driver. He tries to occupy himself with staring out the window, watching the sights fly by and the city light up with bright neon lights as the moon hides behind a thick cover of clouds. The temperature has dropped a bit since this morning, and Bucky can almost see his breath if he stands outside long enough. It makes him think of how close winter is and how much he hates the unrelenting cold that settles over New York and stays there for months. He'd love to pack up and take Nat somewhere warmer, like North Carolina. At least he’d finally be away from Rumlow, but moving would also mean leaving Steve behind.

Wait–why should that even be a factor in this? It's not like Bucky’s invested in this relationship beyond what the contract stipulates. Once he beds Steve he's gone. Sticking around after the fact will only cause unnecessary problems for both of them, and Bucky is already having issues with Rumlow in a similar way. He doesn't want another stage-5 clinger.

He doesn't belong to anyone. This isn't a date. It's just a means to an end. If he can remember that, he’ll be just fine.

“Relax, Buck. It's not a date. He's not Rumlow. It's just Steve.” He murmurs to himself to reiterate the point, swallowing around the lump in his throat once he realizes that the cab is pulling up to the side of the brightly lit red brick building. His heart begins to race a little faster, and Bucky’s tongue feels like lead sitting in the bottom of his mouth. It's showtime. “Act normal. Be confident. You've got this, Bucky. It's not a date. It's not _ –oh, fuck–” _

Bucky can't even finish his little pep talk before the cab comes to a stop and the door is being opened. Steve is standing on the curb, dressed in a tight-fitting dark blue sweater and jeans with a black leather jacket stretching across his broad shoulders and impressive biceps. His golden hair is neatly slicked back and his scruffy beard is perfectly groomed and oh-so-fluffy. Bucky feels the saliva instantaneously evaporate from his mouth, and he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Steve as he offers his hand to Bucky.

This Disney Prince looking motherfucker is even paying the damn driver in Bucky's stead like a gentleman and leaving Bucky stuck in this awkward place where he doesn't remember how to use the English language. Again.

How does he always manage to do this? Every time Bucky sees him he has this little moment of stupidity where he can't seem get over how gorgeous Steve really is, even though he's already had this exact revelation two times before. Still, it's a bit unsettling how visceral his reaction to Steve is each time, and he suspects that it'll always be this way. Steve is a literal Adonis, so he supposes that Steve gets this sort of look from others quite frequently.

_ It's only natural to want to stare at something beautiful, _ he tells himself.

“You are too fine to be giving me curbside service, Stevie,” Bucky says once he gets his tongue to start working again, taking Steve's outstretched hand and standing to his feet on the sidewalk in front of Steve.

“I needed an excuse to hold your hand, so hush.” Steve shoots back with a cocky grin that makes Bucky’s heart quiver. He tries to mask the weird sound he'd just made with a bashful laugh, but he's not sure it did much of anything. Steve's big bear paw of a hand is loosely wrapped around his own, radiating warmth and making Bucky's palm sweat more than it already is.

Fuck. Why is he so flustered about something as simple as holding Steve's hand? Bucky's done things that would make the Devil blush, and he knows that holding someone's hand isn't something to get worked up over, but he feels like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. It doesn't help that he can feel Steve's racing pulse against his own, making him blush a little more than he should.

What a fucking amateur.

“So, what's the big surprise? This place looks like some sort of warehouse or something.” Bucky asks, forcibly ripping his gaze away from Steve's chiseled jawline to focus instead on the neon sign lighting up the front of the building. The sign says  _ Ella's _ in big cursive lettering, and Bucky can hear music pouring out from the inside of the building.

Steve seems very pleased with himself, glancing back toward the entrance and smiling like an idiot when he realizes that Bucky's never been here before. He doesn't explain anything before he’s dragging Bucky up to the front doors and clutching his hand a little tighter with excitement.

“You'll see what the fuss is all about in a minute,” is all Steve says, taking a second to glance behind him and gauge Bucky's expression–which shows that he has no clue what the fuck is going on.

_ He's so cute when he's confused, _ Steve thinks, and Bucky seems to be disoriented an awful lot when he really thinks about it. It's adorable.

“Is this a club?” Bucky inquires, taking shots in the dark as Steve pulls him inside. Steve doesn't answer, but the further inward they go the clearer things become.

The inside of the building looks nothing like the outside advertises, that's for sure. One look around and Bucky is suddenly standing in an era that's long since passed. The atmosphere is smokey and warm, with dimmed golden lighting that's pointing toward a stage. A live band is playing and filling Bucky's ears with brass instruments and the low thumping of bass guitar and drums _. _

It's a jazz club with a slight twist of hip hop, and the sudden recognition makes a bright smile of pure excitement light up his face until his cheeks ache.

“Holy shit, Steve.” He breathes, eyes wide and smile unabated. “This is amazing!”

“Now you see why I had to keep my lips locked. Couldn't risk spoiling the surprise.” Steve says, expression warm as he leads them to a round table near the back and pulls out Bucky's chair; guiding him into his seat before taking his own across the table. It's only then that their hands separate, and Bucky finds that he misses the feeling of Steve's hand in his.

It's an odd thing to crave when his entire job is based on turning grown men in boneless lumps of jelly, but he supposes that it's the subtle intimacy that comes from a place separate from lust. Steve isn't actively trying to get into his pants, and Bucky finds that he doesn't really care about that right now; sitting across from Steve in the low light that sets the mood for something so much sweeter than sex. He can feel it in his bones; how different this is from anything he's ever experienced before. He doesn't want to ruin the moment with thoughts of what he needs to do by the end of the night. Bucky just wants to relax into the slow music and get lost in Steve's eyes for a while. That would be okay, right? Just for a little while, at least.

“How'd you even know about this place? I've lived in New York for twenty-three out of my twenty-five years and I've never heard of  _ Ella's.”  _ Bucky quips, setting both hands on the table in open invitation for Steve to reach out and grab one or both of them. To his delight, Steve goes for both.

“Tony Stark turned me on to this place a few years back,” Steve answers, not missing the little flicker of recognition that glimmers in Bucky's eyes. “I, uh–I used to come here with my wife since she enjoyed these types of places. Kinda became hooked myself, as it turns out.”

The mention of Steve's wife should have put a damper on Bucky's pleasant mood, but it surprisingly didn't. Steve was smiling softly at the memory, eyes fixed on the white tablecloth underneath their entwined hands. Bucky could feel the gold band on Steve's ring finger digging into his skin, reminding him of what Steve's been going through and how far he's come recently. It can't be easy for him to try his hand at romance again, but he's trying for Bucky and only Bucky. That should have been a red flag in and of itself, urging Bucky to stop this madness before things got out of hand. But he doesn't want to stop. He likes spending time with Steve.

“I bet she was quite the remarkable woman,” Bucky says, giving Steve's right hand a squeeze.

“She was.” Steve agrees, and his eyes are now back on Bucky's where they belong; holding his gaze. “But tonight is about you and me. This place holds a lot of great memories for Peg and I, but I'd like to make some new ones with you, Buck. I think I owe it to myself to try and move forward. With you, I feel like I can.”

Bucky has nothing to say back to that. What even could he say when all he's been doing is lying straight to this poor man's face? It's not like everything has been a lie. Bucky has been himself for the most part, but he's been keeping a large portion of his life closed off from Steve when all Steve's ever done is flay himself wide open to show Bucky everything he has to offer. It's not fair to Steve, and Bucky knows that, but he’s got this under control. He can do this.

“I don't know how you see that type of stuff in me, Stevie. You don't know me.” Bucky murmurs.

“Isn't that what this night is all about?”

_ Goddammit, that was smooth. _

“Besides, I think I'm a pretty decent judge of character.” Steve counters. “I feel like I can be myself around you, Buck. I don't even have to try that hard to come out of my shell. You just pull me right out, make me smile like I haven't in years. You bring out the good in me.”

“I think I'm a rather terrible influence on you, Steve.” Bucky sighs, looking away. “If anything, I'm corrupting you.”

“Hey, I'm no saint,” Steve says with a shake of his head. “I’m just a regular guy, Bucky. If I’ve thought about you–and trust me, I have–it’s not because you've somehow corrupted my mind.”

Bucky looks up at this, generally stunned to hear Steve admitting to such a thing.

“You are without a doubt the very embodiment of temptation, but I have to behave myself if I ever wanna nab that second date.” Steve gives Bucky a cheeky wink that makes him laugh. Steve loves Bucky's laughter. “Wouldn't wanna scare you off, now would I?”

“I never said I wanted you to behave, Punk.” Bucky purrs in a low tone, slipping into his element like a fine leather glove. “I'm a big boy. I can handle you just fine.”

Steve's cheeks light up like a Christmas tree, but before he can say anything in response to that, the waitress is standing before their table with two menus; pouring them each a glass of ice water.

Bucky is almost resentful for the interruption until he hears his stomach growling, reminding him that he's starving and everything on this menu looks like heaven. He eventually chooses the butternut squash soup and a glass of chardonnay, which according to the menu pairs well with his meal. Bucky is trying to stay on the light side of things in case the night ends with sex. There's nothing worse than trying to be sexy when he feels like a bloated whale. Steve must be thinking along the same line as Bucky, because he goes for the roasted chicken with winter veggies; paired with a glass of pinot noir because they're fancy now.

The soup is good enough to make Bucky moan from the first bite, and Steve is trying not to choke on his wine because Bucky says in pure amazement, _“hey, there's candied bacon in here! What the fuck?”_

The conversation stays on the lighter side of things as well, and Steve and Bucky are quickly swept away by the minutiae of each other's day to day life. Although, Bucky keeps his retelling of past events G-rated and as vague as possible, claiming that he does art commissions for money. Technically he's not wrong. His line of work can be seen as an art form to some. It certainly is for Bucky, so that's what he sticks with.

Steve fills him in on how he knows Tony Stark, saying that he met him a while back and helped design and build Stark Tower. He's also kinda sorta friends with the man, and Bucky finds that to be completely fascinating–because let's face it, it's Tony fucking Stark.

When the meal is through and Bucky’s gaze wanders off toward the dance floor that’s filled with people, Steve gets the subtle hint and rises from his seat to offer Bucky his hand again.

“You know how to dance, Stevie?” Bucky grins, taking Steve's hand and letting the other man lead them out onto the floor.

“I know a thing or two.” He murmurs lowly, drawing Bucky in close and pressing their bodies together to sway to the slow beat.

Bucky hooks his chin on Steve's shoulder, letting him lead the dance that’s more or less just a slow grind to a sensual beat. If Bucky wasn't thinking about sex before, he sure as hell is now. How could he not? Steve's brick wall of a body is pressed flush against his own, hips swaying and strong arms wrapped around Bucky's waist. Just the smell of his cologne and the little hints of wine that come with every exhale is driving Bucky insane, and he wishes that he could somehow bottle this scent up and keep it for those days when the sun doesn't shine as bright.

Steve is humming along to the beat, holding Bucky close and letting himself become lost in that familiar chai tea and orange scent that clings to Bucky's silky hair. He knew it must have been some sort of shampoo, but it could just as well be something that's inherently  _ Bucky.  _ Whatever it is, it's more intoxicating than alcohol could ever be.

The song swaps out for something a little faster paced, and Bucky grins as his natural skills come to light.

They're impossibly close now, dancing cheek to cheek with Bucky's hands glued to Steve's strong back. Steve's, on the other hand, are now settled a little lower than the spot he'd originally picked on Bucky's waist; cupping the top of his ass.

“People are staring, Steven,” Bucky warns, though his voice is breathy and low. He doesn't give a shit if anyone is watching them, he just wants to see what Steve will do about it.

Steve pulls back just enough for Bucky to meet his heated gaze, and  _ my God _ does Steve look good like this. He's sex on a stick. Better actually. The look he's giving Bucky right now is making him feel like prey, and fuck if that's not exciting in the best way possible. Steve can take a bite out of him anytime he wants as far as Bucky’s concerned.

Steve's nose is brushing against Bucky’s; warm breath ghosting his jawline. It feels like lightning is zipping down his spine, spreading goosebumps in its wake.

“Let them look.” He murmurs, and Bucky's stomach does something odd from the sheer buttery smoothness of Steve's voice tickling the shell of his ear. “You're all that exists for me, Bucky.”

Bucky feels the air leave his lungs before the press of Steve's lips meets his own. His eyes slip shut; grip around Steve tightening. It's just a kiss, but it steals Bucky's breath better than a kick to the gut.

One kiss turns into two. Two to three, and before Bucky even knows what's happening, he's parting his lips and welcoming Steve's tongue inside his mouth like a long lost lover. He can taste the wine with each stroke of Steve's tongue against his own, and it's dizzying in a way that leaves him clinging to Steve a bit tighter; pressing his hips against Steve's and letting the other know how much he's affecting him.

"Wanna get outta here?” Bucky suggests, seeing his opening and hoping that Steve will take the bait.

Steve just smiles and kisses Bucky again.


	13. Chapter 13

The kiss itself should have been enough of a red flag to make Bucky back off for one simple reason: Bucky doesn't kiss clients. Ever. The last kiss he can remember sharing with another person was with his ex, Grant Ward–who turned out to be a major dick and wasn't worth the effort that Bucky put into that relationship–but that was about two years ago? He smooches on Nat in a platonic  _ ‘I just need some human contact that doesn't involve my dick or my ass’ _ kinda way, but it never made him feel quite this...content.

Kissing Steve didn't make fireworks go off behind his eyes or anything cliche like that. It was just a kiss or two–or four, but who's really counting at this point? But it did surprise him enough that he forgot how to breathe for a very noticeable moment. Just the notion that he was kissing a client, and that he  _ liked _ it enough to continue and get a little lost in it quite literally threw him off his axis.

Steve feels the moment when Bucky's knees grow weak and his weight settles firmly against the other's chest. His grip around Bucky's waist tightens to keep him upright. They're still on the dance floor with eyes on them, but Bucky's offer to take things further is ringing in his ears like a gong and drowning out the music and the whispers of how scandalous he and Bucky are. Not like he ever really gave a shit about the opinions of strangers in the first place, but Peggy's famous words of  _ “lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep,” _ echos inside his mind to quell any second thoughts about what he's doing with Bucky in such a public place.

It's just a little necking, but the feeling of sliding his lips against Bucky's–of tasting his tongue and hearing the quiet sighs he lets out when Steve licks into his mouth–is damn near pornographic in Steve's mind. If Bucky sounds  _ this _ sexy when all they're doing is rounding first base, then that begs the question of how he'll sound when Steve’s driving into him in a painfully slow, sweet pace that busts his seams wide open.

“My place isn't far from here,” Steve says as he nuzzles into Bucky's temple, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He can feel Bucky smile against his lips, giving him all the answer he needs right now. He's a little too drunk on Bucky's lips to care about first date etiquette or how bad it looks to sleep with someone you barely know in a fit of lust that might not last past the orgasm.

_ Fuck it, _ Steve thinks. He doesn't feel like punishing himself right now, and he wants to feel good for a while–wants to make Bucky feel even better than he will, come to think of it.

He takes Bucky by the hand and pulls him back toward the table to pay the check and get the hell out of there. It takes a few more minutes than Bucky or Steve are willing to wait, but eventually, they make it back out to the curb and flag down a cab to take them back to Steve's place.

For the most part, Bucky keeps his hands to himself and sticks to just holding Steve's hand in the back of the taxi. It's almost inconceivable for him to let go of Steve's hand now that he knows how nice it feels enveloping his own, but he tries not to think about why that is. Plus, Steve doesn't seem too appalled by the idea of maintaining constant contact with Bucky while they're busy behaving themselves for the driver. It's one thing to make out on the dance floor of a club and another entirely to put on an unwanted show for some poor guy that's just trying to make ends meet.

They can wait until they're behind closed doors to jump each other, and if Bucky is being honest here, he's actually grateful for the pause at the moment.

Sex is Bucky's strong suit. He's good at what he does and prides himself on making grown men lose their ever-loving minds while they're squirming under him. He's confident in himself and knows how good he looks while he's in the throes of a session. He has no reason to be nervous about fucking Steve. Yet he is. Noticeably so.

His palms are sweating buckets again and his leg is bouncing with nervous energy as the taxi pulls up to the curb and stops just outside of Steve's ‘modest’ home. Bucky makes a point of avoiding Steve's gaze and brushing off his well-placed concern when he asks if Bucky is okay. He’s far too busy familiarizing himself with the outer layout of Steve's brownstone to distract himself from the rising anxiety that’s quickly filling up his chest like a flash flood.

There's a walkway lined with small shrubs and seasonal plants that lead out to the sidewalk they're now standing on. Flowers of yellow and crimson add accents to the berberis fireballs that frame the outside of the house, and Bucky wonders if Steve was the one that planted all of this or if it was his wife's green thumb that makes the yard look so colorful and inviting.

It appears to be a two-story home from the outside, with notes of grey, tan, and red brick weaved into the siding. There's a small porch that’s just big enough to fit the front door and what looks like the windows to a part of the kitchen or maybe the dining area if Steve even has one of those. He probably does. Steve is doing very well for himself if he's living in a place like this out in the suburbs, but then again, living in the city isn't any cheaper. Most of Bucky's earnings go towards rent while Nat covers the grocery bill and her half of the utilities. Brooklyn is an expensive city to live in even if you have that extra check from disability that the VA sends out every month. It's just another reason that Bucky has to wanna move, but really, Rumlow is all the reason he needs to get the hell out of the city.

Speaking of which, that unmistakable feeling of having unseen eyes on him is back, and Steve is furrowing his brow with concern as he watches Bucky's demeanor change in the blink of an eye.

“Buck?” He softly calls out, giving Bucky's right hand a gentle squeeze to grab his attention. He's been calling out Bucky's name for at least a full minute but it's only when Bucky feels that extra pressure against his palm that he's able to snap out of his trance and back to reality.

“Wha–?” he asks, and his voice sounds rough, even though he's been deathly quiet since they left the club. Steve is looking at him like he's just said something crazy, and he's just now noticed that they’re stopped in front of the front door with Steve's hand frozen on the knob; keys dangling from the lock.

The question that Steve asks once he finally has Bucky's attention is odd, to say the least.

“Where'd you go?”

“I'm right here,” Bucky answers, framing it like a question himself. Was it that obvious that Bucky was elsewhere for a moment? Must be if Steve is looking at him like that.

Steve frowns and heaves a sigh, and Bucky can tell that that wasn't the answer he was looking for. Steve doesn't appear to be in the mood for sex any longer, and Bucky wants to slap himself for letting his mind get in the way of the end goal again. He did it at the bar when he became too engrossed in the role of the stranger, missing his chance to close the deal, if there ever was one, and he's doing it now with all of these stupid feelings that only serve to confuse and terrify him.

So what if Steve is gorgeous and sweet and turns Bucky's brain into mush with a single look? So what if he's a little paranoid about Brock after he went all psycho possessive on him just a few nights ago? All of that can be chalked up to stress or something, even if it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. He’s just nervous about blowing things with Steve when he's  _ this _ close to having his hands on an extra two grand and finally being done with this cockamamy scheme set up by Sam. He just wants to be finished with this, but Bucky is too stubborn and Steve is just enticing enough to keep his interest in the wrong place and Bucky wants to tear his hair out and kiss Steve silly all at the same time, and it's just too much right now.

But  _ he's right here _ at the damn front door and he's not about to let this moment fizzle out just because he's catching feelings.

Wait. —That's what's really going on, isn't it?

Bucky's getting attached to Steve–or, most likely, the way Steve makes him feel.

Fuck. This can't be happening, but it makes so much sense now that the answer he's been avoiding is violently shoved into the spotlight. He's falling for a fucking client he barely knows, and this is so incredibly bad and wrong and about a hundred shades of fucked up, but at the same time, it feels fucking amazing and Bucky wants to drown himself in everything that is Steve and say to hell with Sam and his damn contract.

But he can't.

He won't let himself.

Bucky needs to keep his eyes on the prize and shove these feeling down about as far as they'll go before he ends up doing something stupid, like sticking around and giving Steve the wrong idea about what they are.

This wasn't a date for him. Steve isn't his boyfriend. He's just a client that Bucky intends to fuck senseless and never see again. He just needs to screw his head on a little tighter and get his priorities straight, that's all.

Just like that, Bucky is back to his usual, cocky self, now that those pesky emotions are bottled up in the pit of his stomach where they belong, and he smiles softly to ease Steve's concern in an impressive show of keeping up the pretense that he's just fine and totally not about to come unglued the second Steve turns his back.

“Sorry, Stevie,” he starts, letting loose the first of many lies he'll tell tonight. “Was stuck in my head there for a moment. Tonight’s just been so nice and being with you and knowing that you're into me like this is...well, it's a lot to wrap my head around.”

Okay, so maybe that wasn't a total bald-faced lie, but he needs to butter Steve up enough to get them inside and on Steve's bed before the moment that was there a minute ago is gone for good. They're still holding hands, and Steve's shoulders have sagged a bit to show that he's bought Bucky's excuse for checking out on him enough to turn the knob and push the front door open.

They're halfway there and making progress, so Bucky allows himself to slip into the role of the lover to heat up the air between them once again. He can do this in his sleep normally, but like always, Steve presents a challenge he's not used to facing.

“You know, we don't have to do anything that you're not comfortable with,” Steve says, because of course he would say that to set Bucky's mind at ease. “I just want to spend time with you, in whatever way you want to allow me.”

_ Oh my God. Why is he doing this? Why is he being so sweet and considerate? _

Bucky can't help but shuffle forward and bury himself in Steve's chest, letting those strong arms engulf him in warmth. If Steve needs reassurance then Bucky will happily give it to him.

“I want to be closer to you, Stevie.” Bucky murmurs in the sweetest voice he can muster, pressing a butterfly kiss to the side of Steve's neck. “I'm not having second thoughts at all. I'm just anxious, if that makes sense.”

“Good anxious or bad?”

“Good. Always good with you, doll.”

Steve doesn't say anything for a few beats, but Bucky can see his hesitance for what it really is. He's giving Bucky an out. It's almost like he wants him to take it, too. Steve's riding the fence as far as becoming intimate with Bucky is concerned, and now he'll have to work harder to get them back to that easy mindset they were previously in. Bucky's okay with taking things slow for right now, so long as the night ends where he wants it to, and he suddenly feels incredibly selfish for doing what he's doing to Steve. But still, that's not enough to stop him in his tracks. Not yet, at least.

Bucky pulls back just enough to catch Steve's gaze, leaning up to nuzzle his nose in a way that makes Steve chuckle.

“So, what's a guy gotta do to get inside this lovely home of yours?” Bucky asks, and he grins like the cat that got the cream once Steve's face flushes a nice shade of pink. He must have forgotten that they were still outside.

“Oh my God, I'm such an idiot. Please, come inside.” Steve insists, ushering Bucky through the threshold and into the dining room.

With a flick of a switch, the room is doused in soft golden light that makes the cream-colored walls and hardwood flooring appear darker than he knows it is. Steve is already toeing off his shoes and locking up behind them, placing his keys in the bowl by the door. Bucky follows suit, glancing around and taking in the long table set to seat eight but knowing that it will only seat one from the things Sam has told him.

Beyond the dining area is the kitchen, dressed in rich reds and creams that bleed into the living room adjacent to it. The open floor plan is welcoming and creates the illusion of having more space than is actually there, and Bucky is envious of how nice Steve's home is on the inside as well as on the outside. A closed door off to the right most likely opens into a set of steps that lead to the basement, and a staircase to the left goes up to the second floor where the bedrooms and bathroom await. It's all the same color scheme of rich maroon and cream, but Bucky can't really see it being a thing that Steve chose on his own. This must be Peggy's work as well.

“Nice place you got here, Steve,” Bucky remarks, giving Steve a genuine smile as he shrugs off his light jacket and hangs it on the coat rack next to him. Steve nods to show that he'd heard the compliment but doesn't comment on it much further than saying a quick “thanks,”.

The tension between them is painfully palpable, and Bucky is quickly losing what confidence he’s built up on the porch while Steve chews his bottom lip and looks like he's about to jump right out of his skin. The gravity of what he's about to do–what he clearly brought Bucky here to do–is weighing on his shoulders heavily now that Peggy's essence is looming over his shoulder like an angry spirit. Bucky is quick to realize that Steve's home is basically a mausoleum to her memory and the life they built together, so it's no wonder that Steve has been so still since he stepped foot into this place. The guilt of bringing another person here to defile their marriage bed must be crushing him where he stands, and Bucky’s own guilt for forcing this upon him begins to do the same.

This is a mess, plain and simple. Steve isn't ready to be intimate with another person like he thought he was, but he's already dragged Bucky out here and gotten his hopes up that more was to come, so he squashes the rising panic as quickly as he can and forces himself to move forward whether he's ready for this or not.

Bucky’s worth the guilt he'll feel in the morning.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4,853 words of what you've all been waiting for. Enjoy❤

“Steve?” Bucky softly calls out, unsure what he should or even could do to help at this point. “I–I think–” he swallows, quickly making a decision to take the out Steve had given him previously. He's not going force Steve into this at gunpoint, and besides that, this is getting far too complicated for him to deal with. Steve is a mess and Bucky is only going to end up making things worse the longer he sticks around. But before he can even say the words that are balancing on the tip of his tongue, Steve reaches out and grabs him by the hand; speaking for him. He doesn't say what Bucky thinks he will–which is that he can't or won't get involved with Bucky in the way he implied he wanted to. Steve isn't ready to give this up yet, apparently.

“Would it be alright if we just sat together for a little while?” Steve's face is pinched in an attempt to form a convincing smile, but it just looks like he's trying to muscle himself through the pain that he must be feeling. It breaks Bucky's heart to see it, knowing he's the cause. “I don't want you to leave, Buck. I just need a minute to let my brain and my body catch up to each other.”

Bucky isn't as convinced as Steve wants him to be and his hesitation forces Steve to flay himself open wider so that Bucky can see what's really going on inside of his head, instead of just assuming what the issue might be. Once again, Steve isn't hiding a damn thing from Bucky, which makes the lie he's wearing as a mask feel all the more suffocating. How much longer can Bucky keep this up? Every second he's with Steve proves to be a challenge to keep up his resolve, and it's only a matter of time before something happens and Steve sees the real man that's been hiding behind the intricate tapestry of deceit this entire time.

What will Steve think once he knows the truth? Will he be disgusted with Bucky—disgusted with himself for allowing a harlot to touch him the same way that his beloved Peggy once had?

Bucky feels his stomach twist with nausea from the mere thought of being caught in a lie—which is odd, because he normally doesn't give a shit about what others think of him. Except of course for Steve. Steve's opinion of him somehow matters more than it should for what they really are to each other: client and contractor.

“I'm going to be uncomfortably honest with you here, Buck,” Steve sighs, keeping their hands clasped together as he struggles to find the words he wants to use. “even though I don't feel that being this open and vulnerable is good etiquette for a first date, I want you to know just what you're getting yourself into. I want to be honest with you. I want you to look at me and know that what you see is what you get.”

Bucky nods, though the motion is stiff from the lump that's just formed in his throat.

“It’s been a while since I've felt this way about anyone.” Steve's voice cracks, and his eyes are barely able to stay where they've locked onto Bucky's. Eye contact isn't one of his strong suits, but he needs for Bucky to see the truth in his icy blues. And he can. He really can. “Obviously I still carry quite a bit of baggage from my previous marriage, and I know that’s not fair to you. I mean, who would want to deal with all this shit when they could have something better–easier?”

Bucky knits his brow and takes a breath to speak, not liking how deep this conversation is about to get. “Steve, that's not–” but he has no idea what he’s even going to say to finish that statement.

“It would be less complicated, Bucky. You can't deny that.”

Bucky shrugs, because Steve is right. Nothing about this is easy. It's actually one of the hardest things Bucky's been through, and that's taking into consideration the fact that he was blown half to hell in a humvee somewhere out in the desert. Physical pain will fade, but emotional pain? That's another beast entirely, and Bucky isn't exactly too keen on waking it up anytime soon.

“All I'm trying to say here is that I know I'm a mess. I can't go more than a few hours without feeling that nagging scratch at the back of my mind, reminding me of why I'm alone and that I deserve to be lonely for the things I've done.” Steve gives Bucky's right hand a squeeze, and he can see how unsure Bucky is as his eyes tear away from Steve's to lock down somewhere on the hardwood floor. He doesn't know what to say or how he should behave, and it's making his skin crawl. Bucky isn't good with feelings, and hearing Steve confess such private thoughts to him like he was worthy of receiving them at all after the shit he's been pulling was clawing up his heart like an angry tiger; making him bleed. And it just gets worse for there. “But being with you...being with you makes things easier for me. Laughter comes easier and more frequently when you're around, as do smiles and that little dance I feel my heart do whenever I see you smiling back at me. I know I shouldn't be so keen to just open myself up to a person I barely know, but I really can't help myself with you. It's like feeling the sun on my face again after years of nothing but stormy grey. I don't deserve it. I know I don't deserve  _ you _ . But I'm selfish, and I want this more than I've wanted anything in years.”

“It's me that doesn't deserve you, baby.” Bucky murmurs quietly, glancing back up to catch Steve's eye. He offers a sad smile, and Steve frowns in return. He doesn't know who Bucky really is, and if he did, he wouldn't be saying half the things he's confessed to here tonight. Bucky isn't worthy of Steve's affections. Steve deserves better and Bucky can't give him the thing he really needs. Steve doesn't need to get laid. He needs a connection with another human being that's not a manipulative piece of shit, and that's just not who Bucky is. Not anymore, at least. It's a sad reality to face, but reality nonetheless. Bucky is in over his head, and before long he'll drown. It's already getting hard to breathe. Too hard for him to ignore.

“You are worthy of happiness, Steve. Probably more than most.” Steve opens his mouth to object but Bucky doesn't let him get that far. He acts before he can really think about what he's doing, leaning forward and pushing up on his toes to seal his lips over Steve's in a kiss that speaks louder than any lie he's ever told. The kiss is quicker than Bucky first intends it to be, but it seems to prove effective in shutting Steve up for a minute so he can finish. “You're a good man, and I can't honestly see you ever putting yourself before someone you love. It's just who you are, Stevie. But me? I'm the one that's selfish. You deserve the world, and here I am giving you shit in exchange for gold. I'm greedy. I want what I want, and I make it a point to get the things that I want. Doesn't mean that I deserve them. You don't know how beautiful you really are, on the inside just as much as on the outside. It's brilliant. So if anyone is the sun in this scenario, it's you, and I'm just grateful you chose to shine your light down on me for a while.”

Steve’s expression shifts, and he steps closer to where Bucky is standing, crowding him up against the wall in the foyer with a desperate look in his eyes. It's not lustful like it was before. It's raw and pained, like an exposed nerve begging to be soothed; shielded from further harm. It's a look that makes Bucky’s lungs seize up in his chest, because it's not meant for him to see. He doesn't deserve to witness Steve’s vulnerability when the person he thinks Bucky is doesn't exist. He wants to look away, wants to do the right thing and tell Steve that this was all just a setup, but he can't move, can't speak. He's paralyzed by that look, and his inaction will prove to be the death of them.  

A warm hand slides up to cup Bucky's cheek, but the slight tremor vibrating underneath Steve's skin gives away his inner torment. He doesn't say anything, but the kiss he presses to Bucky's lips speaks loud and clear, conveying the unmistakable message to Bucky's unwilling ears.

**_I'm not worthy of you, but I want to be._ **

**_Let me prove myself to you._ **

**_Let me worship you._ **

The force of those unspoken words slam into Bucky like a freight train, and it takes everything within him just to remain on his feet. His knees are weak and his thighs trembling, arms coming up to latch onto Steve’s biceps while his mind is desperately trying to tear them away. It's too much, and this is going to hurt like hell once the morning comes and Bucky is gone, but he can't stop himself from indulging like a glutton in this feeling he's never experienced before.

The kiss itself isn't fast or harsh. Quite the contrary, actually. It's warm and slow, like melted chocolate drizzling across his lips. The taste of Steve is sweet, and Bucky finds that he can't pull away even when his mind is shrieking curses at him, telling him that he's the one that's unworthy and that his lies will come back to bite him hard.

He knows this to be true, but he can't stop. Bucky has never felt something this strong; pure and intense like beams of sunlight pushing through the clouds. No one has ever looked at him like this–touched him this reverently. Steve treats him like he’d hung the moon when Bucky is really the one tearing it down.

Their lips slowly slide together, tongues hesitant but still tasting. They're sharing the same air; panting with closed eyes and bodies pressed flush together. Bucky gasps as Steve's large hands slide down his waist to cup the underside of his thighs; lifting him up effortlessly and holding him firmly to the wall. Bucky's hands are everywhere: in Steve's soft hair, clasping the back of his neck and pressing into his shoulder blades. His head tilts back, and Steve sees the invitation clearly.

“ _ Nngh–Steve, _ ” Bucky whimpers at the feeling of Steve's lips and tongue moving across his sharp jawline, dipping down to drag his teeth over the smooth skin just under Bucky's ear; making his entire body go rigid as sparks of fire ignite at the base of his spine.

Steve rolls his hips in a syrupy slow motion, letting out a low groan of his own just from the feel of Bucky's willing body plastered against his chest. The hard line of his erection is rubbing against Steve's; such glorious friction making eyes flutter and backs arch into the blissful sensation. But still, Steve isn't satisfied with what he has.

He wants more. Needs to see Bucky's face as he falls apart under Steve's skilled hands. This man is gorgeous. A true work of art in Steve's eyes. And he pulls back a bit to tell Bucky this much.

“You are so beautiful it hurts,” He says, and Bucky can tell that he means every word of it. His mind is a little fuzzy around the edges, but he still has the wherewithal to try and diffuse the raw passion with some humor, just to make it easier to breathe in Steve's atmosphere.

“It's your dick that hurts, Stevie.” Implying that Steve's jeans are far too tight to contain his excitement.

But once again, Steve throws him for a loop when he says, “No, I think it's my heart.” Without even missing a beat, like Bucky hadn't just said something so moronic.

Bucky's stupid grin falters, melting into something that wasn't quite a frown but is just the right shade of stunned. Steve wants to kiss it off his face, and that's exactly what he does.

Before long they're moving, both still trying to consume the other with passionate kisses that end up including more tongue and teeth than actual lip contact. Bucky doesn't even realize that Steve had pulled them off of the wall until he feels the vibration of Steve's feet hitting the steps; carrying Bucky up the stairs like he weighs less than a toddler. And okay, that fact, in and of itself, was hot enough to make his dick twitch. Bucky loves being manhandled and carried around, feeling those straining muscles sliding against his own.

Not many people are able to heft Bucky up like a ragdoll, much less have the strength to hold him for an extended period of time. Not to say that Bucky was heavy, but the guy is about a solid 190 lbs of muscle. Steve easily has about fifty pounds on him and could probably bench press Bucky if he wanted to, which just makes the entire experience all the more erotic for Bucky.

Steve carries him down a long hallway, passing up a large room on the left that looks as if it would be the master bedroom. He makes a sharp right past the bathroom, depositing Bucky on a soft queen-sized bed in a room that has a rich mahogany desk topped with a laptop and several rolled up blueprints, two bedside dressers (with a ruby tinted lamp and a small alarm clock. A box of tissues and a hardback novel that hadn't been touched yet.) A flat-screen tv, and a sturdy black, wooden computer chair.

This must be the guest bedroom that Steve converted into his home office.

The color scheme was pretty much the same as the rest of the house: rich reds and soft beige, all mixed together with crisp white and greys that reflected in the duvet Bucky was currently lying on; running up the fabric in chunky stripes. The sheets underneath were a plain red that smelled like lavender, but the room itself was highly impersonal.

Even as Steve leans over Bucky to suck a claim into the skin of his throat, Bucky can see that this room, in particular, is completely devoid of anything  _ Peggy. _

It's a smart move for Steve to make, and it allows both parties to relax into the other's touch without seeing her smile in a still photograph or that piercing gaze that radiated something akin to judgment. But maybe Bucky was just projecting that.

He's pulled from his thoughts in an instant when Steve climbs up onto the bed to settle in between his spread thighs, looking down at Bucky through his long, thick lashes while a few strands of honey-blonde hair curl over his forehead. Steve's cheeks are flushed and his pupils dilated; leaving only a sliver of icy blue behind.

He looks like sin incarnate, and Bucky wants to lick him from head to his toes.

Steve catches the look in Bucky's eyes and smirks wickedly, sitting back on his thighs and reaching down for the hem of his sweater; pulling it up and over his head with one fluid movement. Bucky's mouth parts with a breathy groan, raking his eyes over the expanse of chiseled muscle that is Steve’s torso. His skin is pale and smooth, a few random tattoos kissing the skin of his left peck and right shoulder. There's a thick dusting of dark hair that covers his chest, running in a straight line down the middle of his abs and disappearing below the hem of his underwear and jeans.  

He's like something out of a magazine. Airbrushed and gorgeous, without a flaw to be seen.

“Fuck, you're pretty,” Bucky breaths and Steve softly laughs, simply because Bucky is adorable and clearly can't think straight at the moment. But Steve is right there with him, staring at Bucky with his own sweater riding up his stomach and giving a little peek of how toned he is underneath all that fabric.

“You took the words right outta my mouth, sweetheart.”

Steve can't stop himself from sliding his hands up under Bucky's sweater, rucking up the soft material and letting his fingertips explore every inch of creamy skin that he can find. Unlike Steve, Bucky is lean with a slimmer build, but he was strong and very flexible–sort of like a gymnast. The word that Bucky used to describe Steve's body was more appropriate when used in terms of his own, but that didn't make it any less true. They were both beautiful in their own right.

Bucky's sweater is shucked off a moment later, joining the pile that had been started on the floor by the bed. Their touches were gentle and timid at first–almost like the other was made of fine china that could shatter beneath their fingers, but as their bodies became barer, the caresses, in turn, grow in confidence.

Sex was Bucky's strong suit. The bedroom his domain. This is where he's the most self-assured, and Steve can tell that he takes great pride in pulling out those little sounds of ecstasy when his mouth marks a new place on Steve's body. But there's no foreplay. No lead up to the moment when their bodies finally join together for the first time. It's quiet–say for the sound of their panting–and Bucky isn't used to allowing himself to become swept up in the moment. There's no suggestive music playing in the background to set the tone, and no light-hearted banter to defuse the intense energy that surrounds them. Needless to say, Bucky is way out of his element with this and he’s just letting Steve lead them from moment to moment.

Neither of them is saying a word, just exploring the blank canvas of the other's body. They're both nude and wrapped up in the sheets of the bed. Dark red splotches litter the expanse of Bucky's heaving chest, and he recognizes that he's just broken another major rule when it comes to bedding clients. He never lets them mark him.

At this point, It's safe to say that Steve isn't just a client. Bucky can't maintain that lie anymore, because here he is, lying on his back with Steve hovering above him, feverishly kissing this man with everything he has in him and letting his body become Steve's in a way that no one else is privileged to have. Sure, he's no stranger to sex, but this is different.

His skin is marked with Steve's lips and teeth, and he finds that he likes it when Steve stakes his claim. Bucky runs his fingertips over a bruise he'd just left on Steve's collarbone, and he smiles when he pulls a shiver from the man above him.

Their eyes lock for a long and still moment; their faces no more than an inch apart. Steve lets out a sigh and says, “Out of all the people I've come across, no one makes my heart race quite like you.” It's so sincere that Bucky begins to tremble, but he has nothing to say that would make Steve happy. So he surges forward again, closing the distance between their mouths and pours out his heart in the only way he can. Words will fail him, but actions have always been louder where it counts.

They kiss for a long while, only parting when Bucky grabs Steve's hand and trails it down to his ass; pressing warm fingers against his hole.

Steve stills. “Do you...uh, have–”

“In my wallet,” Bucky replies.

Steve nods and presses a few more kisses to Bucky's lips before pulling away to fetch the discarded wallet; tucked into the back pocket of Bucky's jeans, which are lying in a heap on the floor. It is a bit odd that Bucky has about five different types of condoms and two wallet-sized packets of silicone lubricant stuffed into the money holder of his wallet, but he figures that Bucky just likes to be prepared. There's nothing wrong with that. But Steve's belly twists with anger at the thought of Bucky lying like this with someone else. He doesn't want to share what's his, but then again, Bucky isn't actually  _ his _ yet. Still, it's nice that Bucky has those things on him in the first place, since Steve hasn't had to buy any in over three years. Worse yet, Steve hasn't been with a man since his army days some ten years ago, so he's following Bucky's lead just as much as Bucky's following his.  

He takes a condom and a packet of lube, tearing open both and sliding the condom onto his cock; slicking himself up as well as generously coating three of his fingers with lube.

He remembers this part fairly well, pressing a slick finger against Bucky's hole and gently sliding it in up to the knuckle. Bucky sighs, but shows no signs of discomfort that Steve can see. His eyes are closed; face relaxed. He looks good like this, pressing down on Steve's finger and rocking his hips.

“More,” he whines, licking his lips and tilting his head back as Steve pumps his finger in and out. “More, Stevie. Gimme more!–Please!” So Steve obliges, sliding in a second to join the first and taking note of how relaxed Bucky's body is as he stretches him open. It's almost like he's used to this, and that image–of Bucky fucking himself on his fingers–sends a jolt of electricity up Steve's spine.

“God, you sound so fucking beautiful.”

Bucky's moans are desperate and breathy, but loud enough to carry down the hall. Steve's sure that he'll be hearing them long after Bucky's left the house, but that's not something that Steve wants to think about right now. He can't imagine not having Bucky cradled in his arms like this, sighing his name and writhing in pleasure that  _ he's _ providing. It's all so perfect, and Steve never wants this night to end.

At Bucky’s request, Steve adds a third finger. He's already loose enough to take Steve's cock if they stopped now, but Steve still hasn't heard Bucky scream and that's something he'll have to rectify first.

With a twist of his wrist and a press of his fingers, Steve finally gets what's he's been after, and it's so much sweeter than he ever thought it would be.

_ “Mmph. Ste–oh, shit!”  _ Bucky's back arches so quickly that Steve thinks he might have hurt himself. Steve's thumb is pressing on his perineum, rubbing at Bucky's prostate from both sides, and the man can barely even breathe just from the sheer intensity of it all.

“Steve–Ste...fuck!”

“That's it, sweetheart. Show me how good you feel.” Steve rumbles, mouthing hotly at Bucky's neck. He can hear that Bucky is trying to tell him something, but he can't form the words no matter how hard he tries. He's sweating and shaking, pawing at Steve's biceps in a vain attempt to pull him off, but he doesn't want this to stop. Bucky is a hair's breadth away from spilling all over his belly, and once Steve feels his body clamp down on his fingers in a vice grip, he stops his assault and pulls his fingers out.

Bucky whimpers pathetically, longing for more and reeling from his first lost orgasm. He begs for Steve to touch him, kiss him, do something before he loses his damn mind, and Steve wraps his arms around Bucky's torso and flips them over, scooting his back up to press flat against the headboard while Bucky straddles his lap.

Steve wants to be surrounded by his warmth, entangled in Bucky's limbs while they join their bodies together in a slow burn of passion. Bucky is holding onto Steve for dear life, clinging to his shoulders as Steve slides his hands down to cup his ass and lift him up; lining up his cock with Bucky's entrance.

Bucky whines low in his throat, resting his forehead against Steve's once the steady pressure against his rim begins to climb. And then Steve is breaching him, stretching Bucky open wide; hissing through his teeth from the tight heat hugging his dick. Bucky's mouth is hanging open, but he's only able to force out little “ _ ahs” _ as Steve slowly fills him up; not stopping until Bucky is fully seated on his cock.

“Fuck, you're a big boy,” rushes out of him like a gust of wind once he's finally able to speak, experimentally rolling his hips to adjust himself on Steve's cock. It's a bit much for Bucky to take in one go, and his body is definitely protesting about it in the form of a deep burn that licks up his spine like fire. He takes a deep breath–in through his nose, out through his mouth–and then he moves.

Bucky is slow to start, using his thighs to lift himself up and then slide back down. The pain is getting a bit dull, at this point, and those first sparks of pleasure are starting to ignite in the pit of his belly. Steve’s breath is coming in ragged gasps, his fingers digging into the plump flesh of Bucky's ass as the pace quickens. His arms are supporting Bucky's weight while he rides Steve to the brink of insanity, and all he can really do to keep himself from floating away is to hold on tight and never let go.

Praises are whispered in Bucky's ear, telling him how perfect he is and how happy he makes Steve. It makes his heart kick with pride, even though he knows he doesn't deserve to hear such things. He wants to say the same, tell Steve that he's happy to have met him, but he doesn't. He won't. So Bucky presses their lips together again, picking up the pace to a speed that forces his eyes to roll back. Steve's cock is rubbing at his prostate with each forward drag, and that fire in his belly has quickly grown in intensity, threatening to burn him down; leaving only ashes behind.

_ “Steve,” _ he moans, rhythm faltering the closer he gets to his inevitable release. “Gonna come. Please, let me come, baby. Please!”

“Go ahead.” Steve breathlessly commands. “Come for me, beautiful.”

Steve lifts Bucky up and slams him back down, nailing his sweet spot dead on. He hasn't even touched Bucky's cock, and yet, he's suddenly coming with a force unlike anything he's ever experienced before. The air is punched from his lungs and his body goes rigid, nails biting into Steve's shoulder blades as his cock twitches and paints their skin with thick stripes of milky white. Steve is right behind him, thrusting hurriedly into Bucky and emptying himself into the condom; gasping Bucky's name all the while.

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breath and slowly coming down from a high so blissful that it left them speechless for quite some time. Eventually–when the euphoria passed and the mess on their bellies began to dry and flake–Steve sighs and reluctantly pulls out. He lays Bucky down on the pillows, brushing his messy tangles of hair away from his face. Steve presses a kiss to his forehead, getting up from the bed to fetch a warm washcloth; returning a moment later to clean them both up and tie off the condom; disposing of it in the trash.

Bucky hasn't moved an inch since Steve first left the room, but his eyes are open; staring up at the ceiling with an unreadable expression on his face. It's only when Steve slides back into bed that he seems to come back to himself, rolling over to cling to Steve's side and smoosh himself into the space between Steve's arm and his chest.

He knows that he shouldn't stay. Knows that the last thing he ought to do is lay his head on Steve's chest and listen to the soothing beat of his calming heart. But he does. Bucky wants this, at least for another few moments until Steve is asleep and he can slip out unnoticed.

It's been his plan all along. And as Steve's breathing evens out and he murmurs a  _ ‘good night, baby,’ _ to the place he kisses on the top of Bucky's head, he finds that he can't move.

Bucky's eyes are barely open, bobbing with the effort to stay conscious when all he wants to do is surrender to his body and melt into Steve's warmth.

And for the third time tonight, Bucky finds himself breaking yet another major rule.

He closes his eyes and chooses to stay.


	15. Chapter 15

Bucky slowly blinks himself awake in the early morning light, surrounded by warm blankets and soft pillows that make him want to melt into the thick sensation of comfort. His cheek is squished up against something toasty and firm, slowly rising and falling in a calm rhythm. His now scruffier cheek is damp from a small puddle of drool collecting underneath his open mouth, and his hair is a rat’s nest of sweat dampened curls that fall into his eyes still gooey with sleep.

_ Gross _ , he thinks, lifting his head to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand; squinting in the bright sunlight that's pouring in from the window next to the bed. It takes a second or two for Bucky's sleep-addled mind to recognize where he is, and once he does, he feels an odd mixture of relief and shame wash over him like a tidal wave.

_ Tangled red sheets. Scattered clothing on the floor. The scent of sex and salt hanging in the air like a thick perfume… _

Shit.

He swallows and wets his chapped lips, his throat suddenly feeling more parched than the Sahara Desert.

Bucky was still in Steve's bed, snuggled up to him in the same way he was when he fell asleep last night. They hadn't moved much at all during the night. If anything, they'd only slid closer to each other as the hours stretched on and the sun began to rise. But the fact that Bucky’s still camped out in Steve's guest bed (using Steve as a glorified body pillow) isn't what's bothering him. It's that he  _ chose _ to stay when he could have left.

Sure, Bucky could say that Steve wore him out last night and that he was far too tired to even consider moving until he caught some much-needed sleep, but Bucky's run for longer periods of time on less energy than that (thanks basic training), so he knows that's just a lie his mind will try to use to cover up the truth. He wanted to stay. Wanted to sleep next to Steve and feel his body heat seeping into his cold skin. Last night, in that small moment of weakness, Bucky began to dig his own grave, and now he's choking on the dirt; begging for his life.

Bucky slowly and carefully lifts himself up onto his left elbow, shifting his body weight more onto his back to try and roll himself out of the death grip Steve has him trapped in. He can't budge Steve's bicep from where it's securely locked around his waist, and the more he tries, the less Steve seems to like it; tightening his hold on Bucky like he's a treasured stuffie that Steve can't sleep without.

Granted, Steve is still dead asleep, lying on his back with his left arm draped above his head across the pillow. He's relaxed for the most part, but it's clear that Steve isn't letting Bucky go anytime soon, which means that he hasn't got a chance in Hell at slipping out unnoticed anymore. But then again, Bucky was never going to actually leave now that the deed was done, now was he? According to his memories of last night, he'd have to say no.

They didn't just fuck each other. _They_ _made love._ Steve and Bucky shared a moment that stretched into a thousand, and each kiss and touch left him feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he ever had before. Steve was pulling at his heart, ripping out the stitches that had closed him up for so long; letting Steve’s essence in to settle alongside his very soul where it belonged. And Bucky had welcomed it with every fiber of his being, despite the pain and fear–knowing that this would only ever end in more pain and loss.

Bucky would lose Steve eventually, if not to his lies and lifestyle, then to life itself as it pulled them in opposite directions. How cruel life is, bringing them together just to rip them apart. They're two different entities. Steve; the sun, bright and radiant with his ethereal glow. Bringing light and warmth to Bucky's cold and lonely heart. And Bucky; the moon. Gorgeous and playful, flirting with the darkness that others often flee from. Shining a ghostly glow over the blackened areas of Steve's soul. Their paths seldom cross; two lovers stretching out their lonely limbs, until finally, they collide for one glorious eclipse that casts everything in the evidence of their affair. But it's only for a moment, and then they're pulled apart once more, to live as separate beings until they meet again.

It's a tale more tragic than Romeo and Juliet, but one that they would personally come to know.

Bucky warily looks down at Steve and bites his lip, trying to come to terms with what he'd done to this sweet, innocent man. He'd waded far too deep into Steve's ocean blues, thinking that he wouldn't get sucked up in the undercurrent and swept out to sea. What a fool he was _ –is. _ Bucky's still pretty stupid, since he hasn't done a damn thing to try and break this off cleanly. The chance for that slipped through his fingers like sand when he let his guard down and fell asleep in Steve's arms, and now he’s trapped in this lie that’s eating him alive and he's too much of a fucking coward to tell Steve the truth and let this end in the only other way that it can.

He doesn't want to hurt Steve. This man's been beaten down quite enough by life as a whole, and Bucky doesn't need to add anything more to the pyre that's set to burn him down to ash. He knows what he should do, but his heart and his mind are waging a battle over who gets to have control over Bucky, and right now, his heart is winning by a landslide.

So, with a resigned sigh, Bucky shifts his weight and settled back down onto the bed; cuddling up to Steve's side like his body so clearly wants to. He doesn't attempt to go back to sleep though. Bucky keeps his eyes open, just taking in the beautiful sight next to him and watching Steve as he sleeps. Bucky doesn't think he's ever witnessed something so...serene before. It's like looking at one of those realistic paintings of nature, where the flaws of normalcy are blurred into blends of color that make it appear to be more gorgeous than it actually is. The fact that Steve has morning breath and smells like latex and sex is lost on him for the moment, but in the back of his mind, he knows that no one looks like Sleeping Beauty once they've just woken up. It's their most vulnerable moment of the day, where their guard is down and you can see every thought and emotion that plays out on their face before the sleep clears and consciousness comes in to hide it. Maybe that's why Bucky is so enraptured by Steve's sleeping form? It's incredibly open and honest, and Bucky is anything but that. In sleep's warm embrace though, he could be. It's the only time he's not telling a lie.

Bucky watches for a few more minutes before something changes and Steve's body becomes stiff with awareness. His calm, even breathing is now shallow and quicker than it was before, but not by much. He's awake, and Bucky can feel it deep in his bones. He doesn't move an inch, and Steve's eyes are still closed, but his mouth is curling up at the sides like he’s amused about something.

“Caught you red-handed,” he rasps, and Bucky's throat tightens from both the sound of Steve's deep and gravelly voice next to his ear and the embarrassment of being caught staring like a creep.

“Couldn't help it. You're just so pretty, even at this ungodly hour.” He shoots back, watching Steve’s eyes flutter open and search out his own; finding Bucky's gaze and meeting it head-on.

Bucky is a mess. His hair is wild and his expression dopey when it's trying to be suave, but Steve can't take his eyes off of him. He doesn't want to anyhow. He could spend the rest of his life staring at Bucky and never once think anything but what he's thinking now: that he's the most beautiful man he's ever seen.

Steve leans forward on a whim, trying to steal a kiss, but Bucky dodges his attempt and shoots him a pointed look.

“Nuh-uh, Stevie. No kisses.” He says, and Steve pouts like three-year-old that was just told that he couldn't have ice cream. It's fucking adorable.

“Why not?”

“Because I'm foul and so are you. This whole room reeks of used condom and sweat and I won't stand for it any longer.” Bucky retorts, pulling away from Steve and trying to get out of bed. Not that Steve was gonna let him get away that easily. No siree.

Steve tightens his grip on Bucky's waist, pulling him back into his arms and rolling them over so that Bucky's back is pinned against the mattress; making him squeal indignantly. Steve just laughs and murmurs, “Don't care. Want kisses.”

Bucky levels a glare at him, pursing his lips in a tight line and turning his head each time Steve dips down to try and kiss him. It doesn't deter Steve whatsoever, and Bucky groans in defeat when Steve moves his kiss attack to his neck since Bucky won't let him have his lips—the jerk.  

“Shower first. Kisses later, Steven.” Bucky scolds, but Steve isn't listening.

“You're not the boss of me.”

Bucky laughs more than he should at that retort. “What are you, five?”

“Five heads taller than you.”

And, oh, okay. It's like  _ that _ , huh?

“Really, a short joke, Steve?” Bucky can't help but scowl. It's not his fault he's only 5’9” when Steve is fucking 6’2”. “That's your winning strategy to get into my pants? Can't say it's working too much. Fuckin’ amateur.”

“Well,” Steve begins, still very much focused on covering every inch of Bucky's neck with open-mouth kisses; making Bucky squirm. “You're currently not wearing any pants–and correct me if I'm wrong here– but your dick is stabbing me in the hip, so I'm gonna go ahead and call bullshit on that. You little  _ liar.” _

“I fucking hate you,” Bucky growls, but there's laughter in his voice. He won't admit that he likes how ornery Steve is acting, or that he currently has him sandwiched in between his unyielding body and the soft mattress, but he does.  _ He likes it a lot. _

“Just one little kiss?” He purrs in Bucky's ear, causing him to shiver and bite back a moan. “Baby, darling, light of my life? Just a taste? I know you're savin’ all your sugar for me. C'mon, Buck. Gimme a little taste, yeah? Please, sweetheart?”

“Don't you go usin’ that Brooklyn charm on me, fella,” Bucky says, trying and failing to cover up the fact that his body is obviously into it. His cock twitches against Steve's hip, and he knows the jig is up, but Bucky is just as stubborn as Steve. Maybe more. “S'not gonna work, Stevie. I'm Brooklyn born and bred.”

“And I’m not?” Steve chuckles to mask his own shiver of arousal. Bucky's accent is... _ wow. Holy shit.  _ He was not expecting to be so turned on by that. Steve apparently has some undiscovered kinks. “But you can't bullshit a bullshitter. I know you like it. I felt the proof, you little shit.”

“That's circumstantial. You can't prove anything.”

“Watch me.” Is all Steve says before he slides his hand into the space between their bodies and grips Bucky's hard-on; giving it a tug and punching out a moan from Bucky's lungs. It's then that he sees his opportunity and moves to strike, using Bucky's surprise to catch him off guard and finally steal that kiss he's been after.

Bucky fights it for about two seconds before he gives in and lets Steve win, wrapping his arms around Steve's shoulders and pulling him down for another kiss when he moves to pull away. Then another, and another.

Before long their tongues became involved and Bucky couldn't have really cared less about the state they were both in. Not when Steve was jerking him off and sucking on his bottom lip like this.

What were they fighting about again?

Bucky was the only one to climax this time, making an even bigger mess of them and the bed just from the sheer force of his release. Steve doesn't just make him come. He pulls his orgasms out whether they want it or not, and that makes for some pretty intense sex when compared to what he's had before now.

Bucky offers to jerk Steve off–even blow him if that’s what he wants instead–but Steve turns him down and says, “Seeing you like this is the greatest pleasure I could ever receive,” and it's corny and cheesy but Bucky melts all the same because it's  _ Steve _ that saying it to  _ him. _ He doesn't deserve this man, but he wants him so bad that it hurts.

He's in deep, and Bucky has no idea what he's supposed to do to remedy this.

“Okay, I really need to shower now,” Bucky grumbles, pushing Steve off after giving him one more kiss, and Steve lets him go. “And uh, so do you. Kinda made a mess of you. Again.”

“It was totally worth it, wakin’ up this way.” Steve grins, watching Bucky as he slides out of bed and bends down to grab his clothes. Steve totally doesn't swat his ass and Bucky absolutely doesn't squeak like a mouse. Nope, not at all. “Ten outta ten, would do it again.”

“Yeah, I know you would, fuckin’ punk.” Bucky rolls his eyes and shakes his head, stepping out into the hallway to find that bathroom he saw a glimpse of last night. Steve is still lying in bed when he hears Bucky yelling at him from the bathroom as the shower starts up, and his heart swells with a feeling he hasn't had the privilege of experiencing for quite some time.

“You better get your ass in this shower, Steven. Imma classy man, and I deserve breakfast and a fella that doesn't smell like jizz. I have standards, y'know!”

Steve huffs out a laugh and his grin widens, matching the smile of his heart. “Yes, dear. Your wish is my command.”

Bucky can feel the smile melting from his mouth at how domestic that sounds, and once again he's crashing down on the rocks while Steve's ocean blues pull him back into the sea and under the waves. His hand comes up to wipe away the condensation from the fogged up mirror; now forced to stare at his own deceptive reflection.

“What're you doin’?” He asks himself, but no reply comes, and he doubts that one ever will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at all this fluff :D
> 
>  
> 
> It'd be a shame if something happened to it...


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard y'all wanted some angst? Just a taste though, right?

With Bucky otherwise occupied with getting the shower ready, Steve slowly sits up in bed and takes a moment to process what has happened over the past few hours. So far, Steve's taken Bucky out on a date, brought him back home, and made love to him in the guest bedroom. For Steve, that's quite a lot to swallow.

There's a reason that Sam teases him with phrases like _“old fashioned”_ and _“vanilla”,_ often commenting on how slow to action he is when it comes to love and intimacy. Sam has known Steve for years, going back to their high school days before joining separate branches of the military forced them apart for a while. Sam was around when Steve lost his virginity senior year to a girl that he'd been dating for over a year prior to that. He remembers the subsequent heartbreak when said girl left Steve a month later for someone else. He also remembers when Steve met Peggy Carter for the first time; falling head over heels for that doe-eyed firecracker within just a few months of them dating.

Steve has always been slow to act when it comes to giving away his heart. Cautious, even, but rightfully so. But with Bucky, everything has been moving at the speed of light, and Steve hasn't really had a quiet moment to just sit and think on it. To ponder why Bucky can so effortlessly drag this reckless side of him out to the surface and change little bits of Steve's personality to make them mesh with his own that much better. It's alarming how quickly Steve is falling for Bucky, even more so since he doesn't really know that much about him.

He knows that Bucky is some sort of artist that does commissions for money, that he shares a lot of Steve’s interests when it comes to pop culture, and that he's a veteran. But Steve is also picking up on something else that he's realizing lately: Bucky is very guarded about his personal life. He remains vague when it comes to home or what he actually does for these artistic commissions. Steve has never really asked for Bucky to go deeper into the minutiae of his job, mostly because he can sense how tense Bucky gets whenever the subject matter comes back around. Steve's not stupid. He knows that the term _artist_ is used for a broad spectrum of things and perhaps Bucky's form of art is not something he's comfortable sharing at the moment. Perhaps he's a writer or a painter that’s self-conscious about his work. Steve can understand that. He's been there before too. They've been purposely avoiding talking about Bucky's career, and for now, he supposes that's fine. They're not dating, and Bucky doesn't owe him a thing. He just hopes that maybe Bucky will open up a little more once things between them progress. _If_ they progress, that is.

Steve glances down at his hands, biting his lip once he realizes that he never removed his wedding ring when he was being intimate with Bucky. He stares at it, fingers brushing against the gold band reverently before sliding it up over his knuckle. It feels weird, sliding the ring off of his finger, like a part of himself is being torn away. But he can't necessarily be with Peggy when his attention is supposed to be on Bucky. How can he touch Bucky's soft skin when Peggy is still wrapped around his finger like this?

It's not right. Not fair for Bucky to have to look down and see the symbol of Steve's love for her when he's so intimately giving a part of himself to Steve. And it’s dishonest for Steve to say all of these things to Bucky when he's still holding onto to her, keeping one foot in the present and one firmly planted in the past.

Sure, he feels like half of his heart is missing now that that little ring is sitting in the palm of his hand, staring back at him and casting its judgment for trying to do what he feels is right; for taking the first of many steps down a long road away from _her._

It's just for a little while. Just until Bucky leaves and Steve is alone in this tomb he's built for two. Until he's back with her memory and the guilt he'll inevitably feel for leaving her behind comes to claim him. But for now, Steve has a beautiful soul waiting for him just down the hall, and Steve feels like it's been years since he's last touched Bucky's skin. Perhaps Steve's been waiting for Bucky as well, just for longer.       

               

 

* * *

 

Bucky takes a deep breath, watching as the mirror clouds over with condensation once again. He's been staring at his reflection for at least a full minute, trying to comprehend just what the fuck he’s doing right now.

Why hasn't he left yet? Why did he think staying overnight was an acceptable thing to do? Why is he just standing there like an imbecile? He should just tell Steve the truth while things between them are still in their infancy, not allowing for these feelings to grow and mature into something that will inevitably kill them both.

This is stupid and he knows it, but Bucky's heart is still warring with his mind, keeping him here when he knows exactly what staying with Steve will do.

He's not ready to abandon Steve–to let what happened between them last night fizzle out before the fire even had a chance to ignite. He's suddenly reminded of what Natasha said to him just a few days ago.

_“How do you expect this to be anything when you don't try to make it anything?”_

Bucky knew what it meant then (despite his claim otherwise), and he knows it now. This thing that's going on between him and Steve, it’s something special. But it can't ever become what it's meant to be if Bucky doesn't nurture it. He can ignore it, neglect it, let it die and think that he’ll be better off without it, but he can't deny the truth any longer. He’d admitted that much to himself last night whilst Steve held him so tenderly; slowly and carefully plucking out the stitching in his heart.

Steve was never just a client. He's not a means to an end. He's not just a cashed check and a half-baked plan to escape an abusive man. Steve is so much more than that.

He's sensitive, sweet, funny and caring. He's every good thing that Bucky has ever wanted but denied himself to have; thinking that he was unworthy of it. He still believes himself to be unworthy, and he has no clue what he's supposed to do with this gift that fate has placed in his arms, but then again, he's almost positive that this gift will be snatched away from him at the cruelest moment. All because of who and what Bucky really is.

His attention is drawn away from the mirror when Steve calls down the hallway, saying that there are extra provisions that Bucky can use in one of the spare drawers underneath the sink. Bucky sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, grateful for the distraction and the chance to finally scrub the plaque from his teeth.

He pulls open the first drawer, finding things like a spare comb, cotton balls, q-tips, a hairbrush, bandages, and Steve’s unused shaving kit, but no toothbrush or deodorant that Steve mentioned.

The second drawer just below has what he needs, and Bucky reaches in to grab the aforementioned things and set them down on the sink. He moves to close the drawer but stops once something catches his eye. Without thinking, Bucky reaches back into the drawer, fingers closing around an opened box that makes his heart thud painfully in his chest.

Bucky swallows thickly, bringing the box up to confirm what his eyes just told him it was. He doesn't yet realize that he's no longer alone in the bathroom. His senses are pinpricked on this one little box, zeroing in on it while his hands shake.

“I really should clean out that drawer,” Steve says from just behind him, reaching out to take the box from Bucky's hands. “God knows I've tried, but every time I do I always change my mind.”

Bucky feels the air leave his lungs in a soft gasp, somehow surprised that he's been caught pilfering through Steve's things like this. He wasn't trying to snoop, but once he saw that box his brain shut off and instinct took over. It was rude and inconsiderate of him to do so, and he tries to convey that when he turns around to explain himself, but all that wants to come out is, “I didn't know.”

Steve forces a smile. “Of course you didn't. I never mentioned that we were trying or that she conceived before...well, you know.”

“I am so fucking sorry, Steve. I–”

“It's okay, Buck. You don't have to apologize for this. S'not like I tried to hide it from you when it was in the drawer with the damn deodorant. I get it. Really, I do, and it's alright to be curious. You can ask me. I won't lie to you about anything.”

Bucky is frozen where he stands, unable to mask his expression that asks what he truly wants to know: _How far along was she when it happened?_ But his brain and his mouth are on two totally separate pages when it comes to communicating, and all he can get out are a few aborted sentences that never make it past the first word. His voice is rough, cracking and strained like he was the one that had lost his wife and child to something senseless and cruel.

Steve sees the horror in Bucky's eyes, asking the question his mouth can't.

“Just over twelve weeks. Blood test said it was a girl.” His lips twist into something that mimics a smile, but the sorrow is still there. He's putting on a brave face for Bucky, trying to soothe the other man that doesn't know how to process the information he's been given. He feels for Bucky because Steve is empathetic by nature, and he hates to see that look on his face. The one that says how lost he feels. How he doesn't know what to say or how he should act in the face of something so horrific.

Steve was going to be a father. He would have had a beautiful daughter and a wife that loves him more than anything. No wonder Steve is so broken. Everything he would have been was ripped from his hands by a man looking to get a fix, and that is the biggest slap in the face Bucky has ever seen. He can relate to that in a certain way. One well-hidden IED stripped him of his left arm, his career in the military, his dignity, and pride, and cost him his family. Sometimes life just doesn't want you to be happy, and shit happens. Things you love are torn from your arms and no amount of drinking or crying can bring them back. But Steve didn't just lose his wife and unborn child that night, did he?

No. He lost everything. He lost himself, any semblance of peace or hope that he'd once had. Steve went from being the king of his own little world, to completely and utterly destroyed by it. All it took was one bullet, and three people died.

Bucky chokes on a sob, overcome with emotion from Steve's pain. He wraps his arms around Steve and pulls him close, willing himself to be strong and say the things he knows Steve longs to hear. But those words are not for him to say. Those are things that Peggy needed to say when she was still here: that it wasn't his fault and that he doesn't have to punish himself for what someone else did. All Bucky can say is that he's sorry. He's sorry for a lot of things. Things he can't atone for, and things he wishes he could have done differently. But most of all, he's sorry that he never met Steve on his own. He wishes with everything in him that he could've run into Steve someplace else, in a different time and under different circumstances, but this is the card that they've been dealt.

Bucky has prematurely sealed his own fate when it comes to Steve, and he has to live with that. He has to face the fact that he’s a liar. That Steve doesn't see the real him when he looks at Bucky like he is now; with that soft expression that says he's at peace in Bucky's arms. It's deceptive, and Steve needs to know the truth. He has to see the face that’s underneath this mask. To Hell with Sam and this damn contract. Fuck the money. He doesn't want it if it means he has to hurt Steve.

“Steve, I–”

“Shh, it's okay, Bucky.” Steve soothes. “I know what you're gonna say, and it's okay.”

“No, it's not okay. Steve–”

 _“Bucky,”_ Steve hooks his finger underneath Bucky's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Words turn to ash in Bucky's mouth, because Steve just looks so damn content right now. Steve's next words all but seal his mouth shut and Bucky can't speak at all anymore. Especially once he notices that Steve isn't wearing his wedding ring. “It's in the past. I don't want to live in the past while I have you in my arms. It's not fair to either of us. I'm not saying that we have to become something right now, or even ever if you don't want to. But I know what I want, and I'm so tired of denying myself the things that I want. _You_ are what I want, Bucky, and I’ll fight like hell to have you if you'll let me.”

Bucky doesn't say a word. He can't. Steve is searching his eyes intently, looking for something and smiling when he finds it. That look is invasive, stripping him down to his core and leaving him vulnerable. He doesn't know what Steve sees when he stares into Bucky's stormy blues, but he apparently likes whatever it is enough to lean down and gently kiss him; stealing Bucky's breath away.

“You don't have to answer me right away.” He says when he pulls back to look at Bucky again. “Just think about it, okay? No pressure if your answer is no. I just want to know if you feel it too.”

Bucky does. He feels it in the very marrow of his bones. He knows it like he knows his body needs oxygen to live. He wants Steve. He wants to make him happy, but he has no idea how he could ever do something like that. Not with all these lies clogging up the atmosphere.

Steve gives his nose a peck and steps into the shower, waiting patiently for Bucky to join him. Bucky does, murmuring that he'll think about it and sealing his words with a kiss that's just as soft and gentle as the one Steve gave to him a just moment ago. Steve smiles and nods, turning to grab the shower gel and beginning to hum a tune that makes Bucky's heart feel fuzzy around the edges.

They wash each other slowly, touching gently like the other was made of glass. It's similar to how it was the night before, when Steve made love to Bucky. They kiss and sigh, eyes closing and hearts rapidly beating while the hot water slides down their bodies.

Steve's lips are on Bucky's left shoulder, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that runs in jagged lines across the left side of Bucky's chest. He glances up, searching Bucky's face for approval before doing anything else.

Bucky nods, extending out his left arm for Steve to curiously explore. “Go ahead. Can't feel much sensation with it, but you'd never actually know that it wasn't really me at first glance. They did a good job.”

Steve is confused for about two seconds before it clicks inside his head. His fingers gently brush against the skin of Bucky's left hand, pressing a little harder and gasping once his fingertips meet hard, unyielding metal instead of bone and tissue underneath. His eyes snap up to Bucky's, and Bucky just shrugs, urging him to continue.

So Steve does. His fingers move higher, mapping out the extent of Bucky's prosthesis. His entire left hand, radius and ulna, humerus, scapula, clavicle, and three ribs on his left side were all made from the same material, hard metal wrapped in soft, synthetic flesh. Bucky was right. He never knew the difference at first glance, but now that he does, Bucky’s beauty has only grown exponentially.

“The Stark cybernetics program for wounded soldiers…” Steve finally says, remembering the day Tony unveiled it to the public.

“I lucked out.” Bucky answers. “Most of my squad was unrecognizable after the incident. Well, the ones that made it out alive, I mean. Wasn't many. Just two besides me–Jones and Morita– and I never did know what happened to them after we were transported home. I'm thankful that this is the extent of it. I could have lost so much more.”

Steve opens his mouth a few times, trying to ask the right questions and avoid the ones that aren't pertinent. Steve has seen soldiers that have been through this sort of thing. He's lost friends to IEDs and understands that Bucky may not want to talk about it. So he just asks him the question that's weighing on his heart, taking Bucky by the hand and kissing his upturned palm.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” He says, smiling softly. “Used to. But not anymore.”

Steve can hear himself sigh with relief, breath fanning against Bucky's synthetic skin as he kisses his way up the length of Bucky's left arm, and finally, pressing a kiss to his lips once again.

“You're beautiful,” Steve says against his lips, and Bucky melts just a little more. “ You're perfect, Bucky. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone to who leaves comments and kudos, or even just reads my crappy fics❤ you guys are amazing, and I can't thank you enough for supporting my work.

 

Once, when Bucky was about twelve years old, his parents took him and his sister, Becca, to a theme park. He remembers the sweltering heat, the smell of fried sugar in the air, and the cute, hazel-eyed attendant that operated the  _ Texas Twister _ –a ride that straps you in and lifts you up high in the air before suddenly dropping like a stone and spinning you around in a vomit-inducing manner. Never one to back down from a challenge, Bucky had swallowed down his acrophobia to the best of his ability and took his place alongside Becca on the terrifying ride; both unwilling to listen to her relentless teasing if he opted out or pass up the chance to get closer to and possibly impress that red-headed angel with the hazel eyes.

He honestly should have known that something was off the moment the ride started, but his mind was too captivated by the attendant to really notice that his safety bar wasn't set correctly. Until, of course, he was dangling upside down about 60 feet in the air, sliding out of his seat just enough to scare the shit out of him.

Bucky can't say for sure what had happened after he was finally off the ride, but Becca had told him that he'd suffered a severe panic attack and had to have the park's EMTs take a look at him after he'd passed out. Needless to say, Bucky never attempted another freefall ride like that again. His acrophobia had only gotten worse after that, so Bucky tried to avoid situations where he'd have to inevitably face down that crippling fear of falling.

But now, with both of his bare feet firmly planted on the heated tile of Steve's kitchen floor, Bucky finds himself teetering on the precipice of a great chasm; mere millimeters from toppling over the edge in a freefall that will surely kill him once he hits the ground. And there's not a damn thing he can do to stop it from happening. There is no safety bar to hold him back. No attendant to stop the ride at the sound of his terrified screams. No one there to try and comfort him with a firm hold on his trembling hand. It was just him and Steve and the open air surrounding them, and it was Steve’s hands on his back, his breath against Bucky's ear; telling him to let go while he pushed him off the cliff side.

As he stands there, awkwardly staring at Steve's back while he fries up some bacon to go with the eggs he's already made, Bucky can feel his body begin to lean forward, braced by nothing but the wind rushing around him.

The lo-fi jazz-hop that's softly playing from Steve's phone on the counter is all but drowned out by the blood rushing through his ears, and he knows that Steve is saying something to him, probably asking him what he wants in his coffee or if he likes his bacon chewy or crispy, but Bucky can't make out a damn word he's saying. He's far too enthralled with how soft Steve looks in his light jeans and grey sweater, bare feet tapping absentmindedly to the beat Bucky can't hear over the thumping of his heart; which is now lodged in his trachea. He, himself, is dressed in an old pair of Steve's Army PT sweats that Steve let him have since he has about a dozen pairs and won't care of one finds a new owner. Especially since Bucky looks so damn adorable in them.

Just looking at Steve, recalling his soft words and gentle touches, makes the familiar fear he feels whilst looking down from a great height bloom in his chest like fireworks.

He knows he'll fall in love with Steve. It's already happening. But it's not the act of being in love that terrifies Bucky so much. It's the fall. It's that moment of clarity that pushes away the clouds just enough to let you know how high up you are, with the wind pushing against your back in an effort to coax the descent into happening faster. The ground beneath his unsteady feet is starting to crumble, and Bucky knows that there's nowhere he can go that won't lead to the same outcome. Steve has him trapped on this cliff top, looking down at his fate and trying his best to come to terms with it.

It's going to happen, and with every sweet word and soft kiss that Steve offers him, Bucky can feel himself inch a bit closer to the edge, until, finally, he’ll spread his arms and lets the cold air wrap around him; willfully leaping from the edge without a care of the consequences soon to come.

Bucky will fall head over heels for Steve, and his heart will shatter like thin glass when he inevitably loses him. He has to remember that Steve doesn't know the real Bucky Barnes. He doesn't know the man that uses sex and cigarettes to cope with stress and the loss of everything he ever held dear. He doesn't know that Bucky’s family would rather see him dead than doing what he does for a living; or that his father hates him for being queer. He hasn't spoken to Becca in years and doesn't plan on reaching out anytime soon, even though he misses her terribly.

She doesn't approve of Bucky's lifestyle, but she was the only one that didn't condemn him for being gay. She'd known that about him long before his parents ever did and dutifully kept his secret for as long as she could. But the fact remains that Becca chose to side with their parents over him, and his heart still hurts when he thinks about how little she said to defend him or that she couldn't even meet his gaze the night their parents disowned him for being who he is.

Bucky's dead to them anyway, so why does it even matter? If she wanted a brother, she would have fought for it. But she didn't.

“Buck?” Steve calls out, and Bucky's unfocused eyes snap up to meet his. Steve is no longer hovering over the stove, now staring at him with a creased brow and a concerned frown twisting his pretty mouth downward. His hands are pressing into the white granite of the breakfast bar, body tight with tension.

Bucky glances down, noticing the plate of food sitting in front of him. When did that get there? How long has he been spacing out, ignoring Steve to hang out with his depressing thoughts? Apparently, it’d been longer than he thought. Long enough to draw Steve's attention.

“Hhuhh?” He grunts out, because his tongue suddenly feels like a lead weight sitting in the bottom of his jaw and words are too hard to form right now.

Steve gives him a look, sighing through his nose slowly and deliberately. “I asked you if you wanted cream and sugar for your coffee, but you ran off on me again.”

Bucky doesn't say a word. He doesn't even know what he would say to that, but Steve didn't exactly look like he was waiting for some kind of explanation. He just takes his seat at the breakfast bar and pushes the canister of sugar and the bottle of creamer over to Bucky, pursing his lips before saying anything else.

“I noticed that you do that quite a bit when we're together, and I can't help but think that it has something to do with me.”

Fuck.

“Do what?” Is all Bucky can think to say, and he regrets it the second he sees Steve's face fall even further.

“You space out, retreat inside your head. Sort of like it's a defense mechanism,” Steve explains. “You did it last night when I brought you back to my place, froze up in the doorway with this...almost haunted look in your eyes.” Steve chews on his bottom lip, fingers nervously fidgeting with his napkin like he did when they were at dinner the night before. Bucky looks away, finding a spot on the countertop and fixating on it. “You’re here, but you're not.”

Bucky doesn't know what he should say, or what excuse Steve would even want to hear, let alone believe. The truth of the matter is that he's terrified of getting closer to Steve, and the longer he's around him, the more powerless and out of control he feels. His emotions are all over the place, and he's attaching himself to a man that doesn't know and won't ever accept the real him, simply because Steve's nice when others usually aren't. Bucky is way out of his element here, and he just doesn't know how to process all of this, so he shuts down when the feelings become too much and his thoughts swallow him whole, only to spit him back out again a moment later. He's just overwhelmed, but it doesn't mean that Bucky doesn't want to be here or feels like he's forced to be around Steve. Quite the opposite, actually. He can't stay away from Steve, even though he’s trying to back away. Being with Steve just feels so good, and Bucky selfishly wants to ride this out until the bottom falls out of his happy little fantasy and reality is there to kick him in the teeth again; reminding him that he's unworthy of happiness.

“Sometimes I can't believe this is real,” Bucky whispers, his voice rough and cracking. “Like it’s all just some cruel joke the universe is playing on me, and any second now I'll wake up alone in my bed and you'll be gone. Good things just don't happen for me, Steve.”

Steve's expression softens at that, and his hand slides across the smooth surface of the countertop; fingers wrapping around Bucky's palm in a gentle hold. “Feel that?” He says, giving Bucky's right hand a good squeeze. Bucky squeezes back. “I'm real, Buck. This is real. I can promise you at least that much. I will never lie to you if I can help it.”

“I know,” he sighs, and the truth of that statement tastes bitter on his tongue. He can't return the promise, even though he wants to. Steve deserves someone that will be true to him, that will look at him and see more than what Bucky saw the first time they locked eyes at the bar: dollar signs and a means to an end. “Thank you, Steve.”

“For what?”

“Always being so damn sincere when you say those things to me. Can't say I'm really used to it, but I appreciate your honesty.”

“I would never say those things just to say them, Buck. If I've learned anything from my past experiences, it's that nothing is certain. You never know what will happen tomorrow, or even an hour from now. Say what you mean. Tell those you care about how much they mean to you, because they won't always be there to hear it. None of this is just lip service, Buck. I mean what I say, and you deserve to hear how I feel about you. It's just that simple.”

It's a hell of a lot more than just honesty, and Bucky knows it. Steve wears his heart on his sleeve like he's never been loved before, and each sugar-coated word he says never feels like an empty promise. Steve is a man of principle. He's a good man that deserves so much more than Bucky can give him. And yet, it's Bucky he wants. But why? What is it about him that keeps Steve coming back for more? Is it enough to make him stay?

“Why did you choose to talk to me that night at the bar, Steve?” Bucky asks, and the question startles Steve a bit; his surprise playing out in the tightening of his muscles. “What was the end goal?”

Steve frowns. “Does there have to be an end goal?”

Well, no. Not necessarily. But it would make it easier for Bucky to walk away from this if he knew that Steve was just like him. If Steve was just looking for a tight place to stick his prick for the night then Bucky could understand that a bit better than if Steve told him what he'd already suspected: that Steve was out looking for a real connection and saw that in Bucky.

“I just wanted to know why you chose me. Why you're still choosing me.” Bucky murmurs, but he still can't look at Steve directly. It's too much for him to take right now, seeing how earnest Steve is when he speaks to him. Steve has been through hell. Losing his wife and unborn child the way he did. The guilt he feels for lying to Steve—and continuing to lie to him—is eating him alive from the inside out. He hates himself for doing this, and the longer he waits to tell Steve the truth, the worse it's going to be once it finally comes out on its own.

Steve stands, leans over the breakfast bar and cups Bucky's cheek with his warm palm; drawing him up into a kiss that nearly stops Bucky's racing heart. “I knew I wanted you from the moment I laid my eyes on you, Bucky. I know it sounds cheesy,” It does. “And I know you probably think It’s just a line I’m using,” He doesn't. “But it's the truth.” He knows. “You are so damn gorgeous it hurts, and I won't deny that every part of me is attracted to you. I love the way you laugh: when you crinkle your nose and your eyes just...shine with happiness. I haven't found a single thing about you that I don't like. That's why I chose you.”

“Give it a minute,” Bucky murmurs, but the cocky edge he wished would lace his tone just isn't there. Only sincerity remains. “I know you'll find something about me you can't stand.”

“Don't hold your breath,” Steve replies against Bucky's lips, dipping his head down to seal their mouths together once more, and Bucky whimpers as he gives into that little moment of bliss. The kiss is over sooner than Bucky would have liked, and Steve sits back down to start digging into his lukewarm breakfast they’d almost forgotten about.

Bucky follows suit, dumping a few spoonfuls of sugar into his creamed up coffee, watching Steve take note for future reference. Three sugars, and a generous splash of hazelnut creamer. Easy enough to remember.

They eat in companionable silence, but their hands stay joined across the middle of the breakfast bar; fingers gently laced. Who is he kidding? Bucky can't tell him now. It would crush Steve to know just how alone he really is. But perhaps this trainwreck of a relationship can still be salvaged.

Natasha's words are buzzing around inside of his head again, and Bucky knows what he's going to do now. It’s foolish and doomed to fail, but he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't try to save this while he still has the chance. He wants Steve more than he's ever wanted anything before in his life, and this time, he's not backing down until he has it.

“Yes.” Bucky blurts out, and Steve’s eyes flick up from his nearly empty plate to shoot him a curious look. So Bucky says it again; clarifying what it is he's agreeing to so vehemently.

“Yes. My answer is yes, Steve. I wanna give this a real shot. I wanna be with you.”

Steve blinks, honestly quite surprised to hear that. But he can't hide the way his heart constricts with joy, making him squeeze Bucky's hand a bit tighter. “Yeah? You really mean that, Buck?”

“I do.” He answers, and just like that, Bucky is leaping off the cliff side; arms spread and eyes closed, oblivious to how much danger he's in. “I wanna be happy. I want  _ us _ to be happy.”  _ I wanna fall in love with you... _

“I want that too, sweetheart.” Steve's smile is bright and beautiful, and Bucky forces himself to bury the lie that got them to this point. Steve can never know what he did. He can never know what Bucky is. It's stupid and risky and Bucky knows in the back of his mind that it won't work, but he has to try. He just has to be careful and hope to God that this won't blow up in his face.

And just then, when he's agreed wholeheartedly to dive into this ocean full of uncertainty with Steve, reality is there to remind him just how fucked he truly is.

Bucky's phone chimes from where it sits on the counter next to Steve's–where both of them can see it, displaying a message that makes his stomach drop like a lead weight.

**_Rumlow: My place. Tonight. I won't take no for an answer snowflake_ ** .


	18. Chapter 18

Bucky slowly and calmly untangles his fingers from where they are joined with Steve's, wrapping them around his phone and using his palm to cover the screen as he slides it over the counter and into his visibly clammy hands. But Steve isn't looking at Bucky's phone, or the message that lit up the screen just a few seconds ago. He's looking right at Bucky. He won't pretend that he didn't see some sort of message from someone named Rumlow, but he didn't see exactly what it was or what they said. All he can see is Bucky's reaction to it, and the man damn near looks as if he's seen a ghost, even though he's trying his hardest not to show how shaken he is by whatever they’d said.

The color has drained from his cheeks, leaving him a little green around the gills; sort of like he was actively struggling to keep his half-eaten eggs and bacon down. Whoever Rumlow is, whatever they’d said, apparently it isn't anything that Bucky was expecting to see, and quite frankly, Bucky looks scared as he stares down at the screen of his phone.

But the visceral reaction to what he saw was only played out on his face for about a half a second before Bucky was able to get ahold of himself and school his expression into neutrality once again. It's all a little bizarre, in Steve's opinion, but it's also not really any of his business.

Sure, they had mutually decided that they wanted to give whatever this was a decent shot, but that didn't immediately give Steve the right to pry into Bucky's personal life and demand answers. Nor did he expect for Bucky to just divulge all of his deepest, darkest secrets right then and there. Things like that take time and a hefty amount of trust, both of which are in short supply for them at the moment.

It's only been about a week and a half since they'd met, and things are already moving at lightning speed, which may end up coming back to bite them in the ass. There's really no reason to rush into anything serious, and neither Steve nor Bucky are interested in investing so much of themselves into a short-lived fling. So the proper course of action would be to slow things down and let their relationship move in whatever direction it's meant to go, rather than just jumping head first into whatever feels good and hoping that the current didn't strand them out at sea.

Obviously, they sort of jumped the gun already when it came to physical intimacy, but Bucky and Steve are two grown ass men, and if they want to have sex, then realistically, there shouldn't be a reason for them to deny themselves that pleasure. Sex is just a way for them to become closer over time and develop that much-needed trust, but it can also leave them hurt and vulnerable if things go sour between them. It's a double-edged sword. Well, for Steve it is, at least. He kind of gets the impression that sex and intimacy are two completely different concepts for Bucky, which is fine, but Steve doesn't see it that way and he never will. To him, sex and intimacy are one, and shouldn't be separated. Yes, it can be fun and there's nothing wrong with blowing off a little steam and playing around with your partner, but Steve isn't built for the whole anonymous, one night stand fuck that people tend to gravitate toward nowadays. Call him old fashioned, but Steve has never done anything by halves, and he's not about to just fuck Bucky senseless then say he doesn't want to see him ever again. It's never going to happen.

So, regardless of who Rumlow is and what they want from Bucky, he'll be here to deal with it if Bucky ever wants to tell him what's going on. Now, obviously, as things progress and their relationship develops into something serious, then Steve will want to know what's going on behind the scenes in Bucky's life. But he hopes that he will never have to demand the truth from Bucky. Steve isn't interested in playing mind games, and he hates liars, so his hope for their future is a simple one: that Bucky will trust him enough to be open and honest with him, regardless of what's going on around them, and Steve will do the same.

It's really no surprise though, when Steve asks if everything is alright and Bucky chooses to deflect and dance around the subject like he's been doing when it comes to his personal life, telling Steve that it's nothing to worry about and that it's just a work thing he has to deal with later. Technically, Bucky isn't lying, but he’s also being extremely vague about what it is, so Steve decides to drop it. He’s not going to get much more information than that, but he leaves Bucky with this before he stands to collect their dishes and move them to the empty sink:

“You know you can tell me anything, right? No matter what it is, I’ll try to understand it the best that I can so that I can help.”

“I know, Stevie. But really, you don't have to worry about me. I'm a big boy. I can deal with it all on my own,” was Bucky's light-hearted response, brushing off Steve with a dismissive wave of his hand and a wry grin. He’s definitely hiding something from Steve, but he has no clue what it could be. Still, he wants to help Bucky with whatever's bothering him if he can.

“Thing is, you don't have to,” Steve says, smiling softly. “I'm here if you need me, Buck. That's all I'm saying.”

“And I appreciate that. I’m not nearly as fluent in earnest-speak as you clearly are, but I've been told that I'm a hell of a good listener.” Bucky replies with a shrug, swiftly changing gears and directing the mood to something he is very fluent in; lust. “Especially if it means I get to hear you talk for hours on end. I fuckin’  _ love _ your voice, Stevie. I mean, it's like gravel dipped in honey, which shouldn't be a sexy concept at all, and yet you somehow make it that way.”

Steve knows a subject change when he sees one. This conversation is pretty much done and over with. Bucky made sure of it.

“Says the man with a voice that's the embodiment of lace soaked in whiskey.” Steve shoots back without a second of hesitation. He can play along if Bucky wants him to. “Not an appealing concept, but you wear it well, Buck.”

Bucky smirks and rises from his seat, sauntering over to Steve with a mischievous glint in his eyes; pleased that Steve took the bait he laid out. His arms wrap around Steve’s waist, chest pressed up against Steve's back. Rumlow and his phone are long since forgotten on the counter, and apparently, Bucky only has one thing on his mind right about now. Steve shouldn't be surprised, and yet he is when Bucky purrs into the skin of his neck: “I bet you'd  _ love _ to see me in lace, wouldn't you, baby? Some pretty little thing in red that hardly hides any skin at all.” Bucky's grinning now. Steve can feel it. Hear it in his whiskey-soaked tone. “Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, Stevie?”

Steve's reaction goes about as well as you'd think it would, quickly turning around in Bucky's arms just so he could mash his mouth against Bucky's to swallow up his gasps and groans; clearly intent on taking him right there on the kitchen floor if Bucky wanted that. But things only escalate to the point where Steve has his hands snaking down the back of Bucky's sweatpants before Steve's phone is the one chirping, reluctantly breaking them apart (because Steve is an idiot and doesn't even think about letting it go to voicemail) and letting the moment fizzle out just as quickly as the spark ignited. Bucky huffs in annoyance, scrubbing his face with his hands and rolling his eyes while Steve takes the call from Sam, but once Bucky figures out who's on the line, he once again has a strange reaction to it. Similar to when he read that text from Rumlow, growing noticeably paler and oddly nervous just from hearing Sam's voice.

Steve elects to ignore that for now but files it away for later when he has time to pick it apart. 

Right now though, Sam is chewing his ass out for skipping their run this morning (which Steve never does unless he's on his deathbed or Sam isn't available. So much for being undercover this weekend, Sam.) Bucky is staying just close enough so that he can hear the conversation, but he looks very uneasy and distressed when Steve begins his apology for ditching Sam with  _ “I met someone.” _

Sam stops mid-insult, changing his tune in an instant to something surprised and awfully cheery for someone who was just about to verbally murder Steve. Steve’ll never hear the end of this now that the cat's half out of the bag, but it doesn't seem like Bucky is ready for Steve to divulge the details of their relationship to one of his closest friends, based on the face he's making that looks like Bucky's about to hit the floor at any second now. Once again, it's bizarre to Steve how weird Bucky is acting, but he'll respect Bucky's desire for discretion for a bit longer. He doesn't see the need for such secrecy, but then again, he doesn't know what Bucky's motivations are for it. Maybe he isn't out yet? They haven't really discussed Bucky's orientation or if his family and friends knew that he was queer. Come to think of it, Bucky has never once mentioned that he had a family or any friends at all, just the ambiguous fact that he had a roommate.

_ Huh. _

_ “I should be heading home. Almost noon, have to get ready for work in a bit.” _ Bucky mouths while Steve is busy deflecting Sam's barrage of questions regarding this mystery person that Steve is seeing behind his back. He holds up his pointer finger, silently asking for Bucky to give him a minute to wrap up the call so they could talk. Bucky nods, but while Steve is in the kitchen getting absolutely nowhere with Sam, Bucky heads upstairs to the guest bedroom to grab his clothes and anything else he might have discarded while he was busy getting naked last night.

When he comes back down, Bucky has already called for a Uber to pick him up, and Steve is still stuck on the line with Sam, trying and failing to get a word in edgewise.

Steve has a crease in between his brows, which Bucky smoothes out with his finger, earning a dopey smile from Steve. They both jump a little at the sound of a car horn out front, and Steve’s smile falls when Bucky leans forward to kiss his cheek, telling him quietly that his ride is here and that he'll talk to him later. Steve doesn't get the chance to say anything more to Bucky before he's suddenly gone, climbing into a black, four-door Impala that must have been his Uber.  

When did he even call for one?

The whole thing leaves Steve at a loss for words because apparently, Bucky couldn't high-tail it out of there fast enough after Sam called, and despite Steve's blatant protests, he's now supposed to meet Sam for coffee in twenty minutes to fill him in on all the juicy details he neglected to provide over the phone. But perhaps Sam and Bucky somehow know each other, or at least, maybe Sam can possibly provide some sort of insight as to why Bucky reacted the way he did to hearing Sam's voice. Or, maybe it's just all in Steve's head and he's trying to look for faults that aren't even there. He'll talk to Sam about it and see what he says. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to think that Steve's guilty conscious is filling his head with shit that isn't even there. Wouldn't be the first time it happened, and it won't be the last. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky's heart is beating faster than a rabbit's, staring down at his phone in his trembling hand while the driver merges onto the highway, heading towards his apartment in Brooklyn. He’d almost forgotten about Sam, what with all that’s been going on with him and Steve lately, it simply slipped his mind that he was still in a binding contract. Suddenly that contract is shoved back into his face, reminding him once again that Steve was just another client. An unsuspecting, unwilling participant in Bucky and Sam's little game of chance, and that none of this was ever real. Well, until now, that is.

He bites his lip, scraping his teeth over the soft pink of it while his thumbs hover over the keypad on his phone. The message from Rumlow is basically staring him down, daring him to even try and respond the way he really wants to: which is to tell Rumlow that he can go fuck himself with a rusty pipe for all he cares.

But he can't.

As much as Bucky would love to say what's really on his mind to Rumlow–and maybe demonstrate how hard he can punch with a cybernetic arm (much harder than you'd think, actually)– he knows that as soon as he did, Rumlow would run to Captain Fury and squeal like a pig, landing both him and Natasha in hot water. It’s one thing if it was just his life he was throwing away, but Nat is tied up in this just as tightly as Bucky is, so he has to bite his tongue whether he wants to or not. It isn't fair that Natasha should have to do penance for his sins, but that's just the way it is, and sometimes life just isn't fair.

Regardless of how he truly feels, Bucky has to do this. Rumlow is running out of patience with Bucky, and he has a terrible feeling that things are about to become a whole lot more complicated now that Steve is in the picture. And what's worse, he can't even talk to anyone about this. He's completely alone, and that's the price he has to pay for the life he's chosen to lead.

Bucky has no one to blame but himself.

The Uber drops him off in front of his apartment a few moments later, and he's suddenly very aware that if Sam is off-duty, then Natasha most likely is as well.

He’s literally wearing Steve's clothes, carrying his old ones under his arm and sporting several new bruises on his neck and chest from Steve's lips and teeth. Natasha isn't daft. She'll take one look at him and know exactly what he's been up to lately, and nothing he could ever say could convince her otherwise. Besides, he did tell her that he was going out with Steve the previous night, but she doesn't know that they're kinda sorta dating each other now. Only that Bucky was supposed to seal the deal and be done with it.

He’s so lost in thought that the second he steps off the elevator and into their apartment, he barely notices that Clint is there as well, lounging on the couch like a lazy cat while Nat is busy fixing them some lunch in the kitchen.

“Hey, babe, that stray you took in a while ago is back,” Clint calls out, earning a puzzled sound from Nat and an eye roll from Bucky. “Looks like you don't have to get ‘em chipped after all.”

“Your jokes are bad and you should feel bad,” Bucky growls in Clint's direction, even though he knows that Clint isn't necessarily trying to be a dick. That's just his personality.

Bucky heads into his room and closes the door, flopping down on the bed like he'd collapse if he stayed on his feet a second longer. Sure as hell feels that way to him, at least. He's not even surprised when he hears a knock on his door, which slides open a second later even though he hadn't said a word.

His eyes stay locked on the ceiling, tracing the bumps in the white paint and following the brush strokes rather than chance a look at Natasha, who’s now sitting on the edge of the bed, picking him apart with her intense gaze.

“So,” she begins, keeping her tone light and nonchalant. “Do you wanna tell me why you're so moody, or are you gonna try and lie to my face again?”

Bucky reluctantly shifts his eyes over to meet Nat's, and he instantly regrets doing it. She looks tired, like her disappointment in Bucky is physically taxing just as much as it is emotionally. He can't bring himself to say a word, but Nat doesn't need to pick apart his lies to find the truth. She can read him like an open book. Maybe even better than that, actually.

“James, talk to me.” She pleads, but it might as well have been a command, regardless of how softly she’d said it. She can see the bruises, and she knows that Bucky doesn't allow things like that to happen. She's rightfully concerned, but for the wrong person. “Something happened last night, didn't it?”

Bucky sighs. She assumes that Steve became a bit too handsy with him, resulting in the marks on his skin and his sullen attitude, but it's not like that at all. Bucky wanted it. “It's not what you think, Nat. He didn't hurt me, I promise.”

Nat pauses for a beat, thinking over what he’d said before asking another question. This one right on the mark. “Did you hurt him?”

“Yes,” he answers, breathing out the word like an exhausted sigh. “But he doesn't know that I did. Don't think I'll ever be able to tell him that I did.”

Nat purses her lips, instantly realizing what Bucky is trying to say without actually saying it out loud. So she says it for him, just so he can hear it.

“You lied to him, James. You're still lying to him. And now you're attaching yourself to him because he makes you feel good. Right?” 

Bucky winces, forcing himself to sit up on the bed next to her. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, James?  _ Love?” _ Nat’s rightfully skeptical, shooting him a hard look that turns his argument to ash on his tongue. “He doesn't know you. He’s falling in love with a figment of his imagination, and you just like the idea of what he represents. It's  _ not _ love. It can never  _ be _ love. Not like this, it can't. I've already said this much.”

“I know that. But–”

“Do you?” She snaps, cutting off his retort at the knees. “Do you really? ‘Cause it seems to me like you don't get how serious this is. This is someone’s life, James. You can't just–he deserves to know who he's building his life around.”

Bucky is quiet for a few moments too long, and Nat sighs heavily, taking his silence for what it is: fear. Bucky wishes with everything in him that he could tell her about Rumlow, about his threats and abusive behavior. He wants to tell her how Steve makes him feel, how he wants to live in Steve's embrace for the rest of his days, to love him as Steve deserves. But she wouldn't understand. No one could understand. So he doesn't say a thing at all.

Natasha slides her hand up his back, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and pulls him in for a hug. It's so unexpected that Bucky flinches hard, but melts into her embrace at the sound of her hushed murmuring, telling him that she's here and that he doesn't have to bear this alone. That they can figure this out and make it right, somehow. It's everything he needs to hear, but he doesn't really believe it. Natasha doesn't know how fucked he truly is, and how could she when he doesn't communicate properly with her? Bucky doesn't even know where to start.

They stay like that for a few minutes longer before Bucky pulls away, somehow a bit more composed than he was when he first came home. He doesn't have time to wallow in self-pity, or shroud himself in Natasha's comfort. Brock is expecting him in less than four hours, and Bucky still has to figure out how he's going to cover up these marks that Steve left behind. Not counting how long it'll take to prepare himself for their  _ “date” ( _ yuck). 

Whatever he's gonna do, he better figure it out quickly. If Bucky shows up with love bites all over his skin from another man, there's no telling what Brock will do about that, and that honest to God scares him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: this chapter is darker than the others by a long shot. If you are triggered by physical assault/non con, then please tread lightly. If you want to skip that part, then stop reading after this line.
> 
> "He knows that he could turn around and walk away, tell Rumlow to fuck off and stand his ground if things turned ugly–which they most likely would, in that scenario–but if he did that, if he stood up for himself and said enough, then he'd be putting Natasha at risk, and he can't do that to her. Not after everything she's done for him."

“So, is this the same cat from before, or did you wine and dine some other lucky bastard last night? I've been out for a week, man. I need the details.” Sam asks around a mouthful of his ruben, skipping the bullshit filler conversation and jumping straight to the point. Unbeknownst to Steve, Sam already knows the answer to that question, and he isn't exactly pleased to know that Bucky is going behind his back like a rat bastard and playing ‘house’ with one of his closest friends—who was only ever supposed to be a client to Bucky, not his secret lover. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Bucky wasn't meant to be the one to fill the void in Steve's lonely life. He was only ever intended to be the catalyst that sparks the need for change within Steve, making him see that, yeah, life can be cruel, but there are still some good things out there for him, if he's brave enough to take them for himself, that is. This was only ever about nameless sex. So how exactly did they end up here, having a conversation where Steve is admitting to dating an escort?

“It’s the same guy. The one from the bar I told you about? You'd’ve known that if you'd let me finish my damn sentence over the phone, Sam.” Steve answers, but he’s not looking at Sam when he says it. He's far too focused on making a mess of his leftover sandwich bread, tearing the uneaten crust into crumbs over and over again until the pieces are too small to destroy. Steve’s entire body language is telling Sam that he’d rather keep this under wraps for now, but while his shoulders are a bit tense, there's a small smile curling up the side of his mouth. He's happy. Steve Rogers is actually fucking  _ happy _ about this.

Sam rolls his eyes, flicking a scrap of lettuce off his plate in Steve's direction, hoping it would hit him square in his distinguishably crooked nose. Smartass…

“Well, forgive me for being excited that my best friend finally put himself out there after three plus years of martyrdom. I don't know what got into me.” Sam snipes with a heavy layering of sarcasm, giving just as good as he gets. “But I'm pretty sure I know what got into you, lover boy. Might wanna cover those love bites before Monday rolls around. You'd be the talk of the town ‘round here.”

Steve's face turns a delightful shade of pink, hand darting up to fix the collar of his shirt and hopefully hide the bite mark Bucky'd left on his collarbone the night before. He looks mortified, but he doesn't deny that they slept together either. Wouldn't matter if he did. Steve is a terrible liar.

“It wasn't like that, Sam.” He says, keeping his voice low to try and preserve the privacy of their conversation. “You know I can't just–” but he can't finish his sentence, gesticulating wildly with his hands to try and convey his point without outright saying it. Bless his stupidly endearing heart. Despite the fact that he'd fucked an escort last night, Steve will always be adorably shy when it comes to talking about sex in such a public place.

“Love’em and leave'em?” Sam supplies with a knowing smirk and Steve nods, appearing troubled just from the mere thought of it. “Yeah, yeah, I getcha, Romeo. He's special, right? Y'all made a connection or some shit, and now you’re doodling his name across your notebook like a twelve-year-old girl?”

“Yeah, he is special, Sam. And no, I'm not obsessing over him. It just feels nice to have someone that gets me the way Peg used to. Someone who's real.” Steve says, and Sam exhales dramatically, thinking that he should have thought this through a bit more before he ever contacted Bucky.

_ Real. _

What in the hell was he thinking? Steve can't have no-strings-attached sex. He's a hopeless romantic that tries to see the good in everything and everyone. Why would he ever believe for a second that Bucky wouldn't somehow become one of Steve's endless ‘fix it’ projects? Apparently, Bucky isn't immune to Steve's charm like he'd advertised himself to be. That wholesome-boy-from-Brooklyn way he walks and talks could bring anyone to their knees. Sam can't exactly blame Bucky for falling for it–even though he’s clearly breaching professional boundaries here, but he does wish that things hadn't ended up the way they did. So much for  _ ‘It'll be like I never existed.’  _ But perhaps that's for the best?

Natasha must be having a field day with this, seeing how she’s been just as desperate to get her roommate out of the business and into a healthy, stable relationship, or even just so he could have a normal life that isn't so risky. It would have been nice to know that before Sam had set up Steve and Bucky to meet the way he did. Now the whole things fucked to hell and back. But the damage is already done. All parties involved failed to communicate with each other until the last second for one reason or another, and now Steve is the one that's gonna pay the price for it. They were all a bunch of fools, really.

Steve finally glances up from his plate of rye crumbs. He's smiling, but the expression doesn't reach his eyes. He looks...nervous? Confused? Whatever it is, it doesn't sit well with Sam. He takes a sip of his coffee, probably just to give himself something to do while he figures out what he wants to say. When he does though, it cuts straight to Sam's core like a well-placed bullet.

“I thought you'd be happy for me, Sam. I finally find someone that makes me feel the way I did with her and you’re–” he makes a face, choosing his next words carefully. “–You just seem angry about it.”

There's a pause, a second for Sam to contemplate that before he answers. But that's the million dollar question right there. Isn't this what Sam's been after all along? Steve happy and clearly pining away over Bucky like the sappy idiot he is? Well, maybe not over  _ Bucky, _ initially, but this whole convoluted plan was only meant to get Steve back out there in the world so that one day he might find someone and just _...be happy. _ Who cares if it's with Bucky? Yeah, he was paid to sleep with Steve and basically lied right to his face, but it was Sam that told him to do it. Sam is just as guilty as Bucky. Maybe even more so.

He shouldn't care that Steve has attached himself to Bucky–a man that fucks people for money–but he can't help but want more for Steve than this. It's selfish and entirely not up to him in the first place, but Bucky hasn't been true to Steve from the start and it's all Sam's fault.

“Maybe I'm just salty that you won't tell me anything about him.” Sam is smiling crookedly, trying to insert some levity with a bit of harmless ribbing, but he also wants to know what Bucky has told Steve about himself. Does he know what Bucky does for a living? Is Steve okay with  _ ‘sharing him’? _ “I get why you're being so tight-lipped, but you mean the world to me, Steve. You deserve the best and I wanna make sure you're giving your heart away to the right person. People aren't always what they seem to be. I don't want you to get hurt.”

_ Shoulda thought about that before you lied to him, Sam. This is on you. _

Steve softens at that, reaching out to rest his hand over top of Sam's. “I know, Sam. But I promise you that I'll be okay. Bucky's a good guy. A little guarded, but sweet. You don't have to worry, okay?”

Sam hums. Guarded, hm? So he hasn't told Steve the truth about who he is or why they met the way they did. Sam's stomach twists with some indecipherable emotion, but it feels like maybe he's being protective over Steve.  He doesn't know any better. Steve's ignorant of the truth, kept purposefully in the dark by Bucky, and Sam won't stand for that, no matter what they feel for each other. But it's not his place to tell Steve the truth. It's Bucky's, and Sam will make sure that he knows it.

* * *

 

Bucky is smoking his third cigarette in the past hour, chain-smoking while he waits for a cab to pick him up on the curb, practically vibrating out of his skin with anxiety. He doesn't want to do this. Brock Rumlow is one scary motherfucker, and Bucky'd be lying if he'd said he wasn't one heartbeat away from having a panic attack.

This feels wrong. Like Bucky's willfully walking into a bear trap or something, and just the thought of being some sort of helpless prey to that man makes his skin itch in the worst possible way. Then again, it could be the makeup he's wearing underneath his shirt that’s causing his skin to feel weird. Natasha offered to help cover up his bruises using her waterproof tattoo concealer that she uses for work, and Bucky’s not going to complain about it. The bruises are gone, for the most part, and Nat swore up and down that he'd have to scrub himself raw with some special solution just to get it to come off, which means that sweaty skin and rough handling won't necessarily be a problem.

It's honestly a relief, knowing that his secret is safe and that Brock will be none the wiser. But still, he'd rather stick his hand into a wasp's nest than let Rumlow touch him the same way Steve has, and Bucky is terrified of wasps. Normally he'd be able to dissociate enough to make the unwanted contact tolerable until Brock gets bored and leaves him alone, but he has a feeling that Rumlow isn't going to allow him that courtesy this time. He'll want him present, stuck in the moment with him while Rumlow rearranges his insides like the rabid animal he is. And God help him if Rumlow ever finds out that he's actually  _ seeing _ someone. The man is a stupid, possessive thug that uses threats and violence to get what he wants, and right now, he wants Bucky. That is a  _ terrifying _ thought to have.

The cab pulls up and honks loudly, breaking Bucky out of his stupor with a jolt. He shakes himself back to reality, ignoring the odd stares he's getting from the people passing by on the walkway as he slides into the backseat and offers the driver Rumlow's address. He's dressed like he's off to the gym for a late workout, not for a very personal housecall, but Brock likes it when Bucky wears his compression bottoms that fit more like yoga pants, because it leaves little to the imagination. Sure, his jacket offers him a little modesty where it counts, but if anyone looks closely enough, they'd be given quite the show.

His hair is up in a high ponytail, which will be torn down and mussed by Rumlow's fists before he even gets through the damn door. Brock likes to use his ponytail as a handlebar when he's fucking Bucky from behind, and he sometimes tugs hard enough to make his eyes water. Not that he'd care much about that if Bucky said anything.

It's jarring how different Brock is from Steve, or any of his other clients, for that matter. Rumlow is the only one he's been with since Grant Ward that genuinely frightens him, and that's saying something coming from a war vet that’d survived an IED. None of his other clients have ever displayed such a blatant disregard for his safety and comfort, and even though Brock didn't start out that way, over time it became more apparent that the person he was originally pretending to be was exactly that. An act. He had a clean record. Not so much as a parking ticket. Plus he worked for a highly profitable company called Hydra that specializes in a plethora of things, from medical technology to weapons manufacturing. He was a model upstanding citizen on paper. But once Brock took a liking to Bucky and claimed him as his own, that pleasant demeanor was quick to fall away, revealing the demon beneath it.

His thoughts quickly drift from Rumlow to Rollans, and he can't say that he's ever really had an issue with Jack on this scale, but he will admit that the man is kinda creepy and unsettlingly quiet. Even when he climaxes, he hardly makes a sound. Sitwell is a brat and a know-it-all, but he's relatively harmless and understands the boundaries set in place between them. He's professional and clinical, and Bucky prefers it that way.

But then there’s Steve.

Sweet, gorgeous, wonderful Steve.

He's the only man that Bucky's been physical with to actually  _ make love _ to him, which is weird when he thinks about it. He can honestly say that he's never been touched like that before, but he loved it. Every blissful second of it. Steve is always doing things like that for Bucky, but it's only because he thinks of Bucky in a certain way. What would he think if he knew the truth? Would he have treated Bucky any different if he knew before things became physical? Bucky can't say for sure, but he doubts that Steve would ever even entertain the idea of using an escort. He's far too dignified for that.

If it wasn't for Sam, they’d probably have never met at all.

Speak of the devil…

Bucky feels his phone–the burner–vibrate within his coat pocket. He takes it out and looks down at the screen, face turning ashen in an instant.

**_Sam– You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you're not gonna like._ **

Fuck. Everything.

Sam knows. Steve talked and now Sam knows exactly what he's been up to. This is bad. This is so fucking  _ bad. _

And to make things worse, he hasn't heard from Steve since he left this morning, so Bucky has no idea if Sam said something to him, or if he knows anything at all about their arrangement. Bucky is half tempted to send him a preemptive text just to find out, but ultimately decides against it in the end. Jumping the gun is literally the worst thing that he can do in this situation. It's just better if he waits to see what Sam has to say and then take it from there.

The cab comes to a stop and Bucky knows that he’s run out of time to worry over it. He's got bigger problems to face now, namely Brock Rumlow, so he puts a pin in that last thought and forces himself to focus on the here and now. He literally hasn't got a clue as to what Rumlow will expect from him tonight, and Bucky needs all his faculties if he's gonna get out of this in one piece, hopefully, to see Steve again and let himself forget.

His body is running on autopilot, walking up the steps to Rumlow's apartment and pressing the call button. Rumlow buzzes him in without a word and Bucky heads inside, stepping into the elevator and swallowing thickly once the doors close and he's heading up to the forty-first floor.

It's only when he's standing in front of the apartment door, finger against the buzzer, that he realizes he can't breathe. This is real. This is actually happening, and Bucky can't do a damn thing to stop it. He knows that he could turn around and walk away, tell Rumlow to fuck off and stand his ground if things turned ugly–which they most likely would, in that scenario–but if he did that, if he stood up for himself and said  _ enough, _ then he'd be putting Natasha at risk, and he can't do that to her. Not after everything she's done for him.

Bucky barely has time to register that the door is open before Rumlow's fist is knotted in his hair, dragging him inside and slamming his back up against the entryway.

He yelps, eyes going wide and hands coming up to clasp Rumlow's forearm in a vain attempt to protect himself. He probably could get Rumlow to back the fuck off if he used his left hand to crack the bones of his wrist, but violence begets violence, and Rumlow is bigger and stronger than Bucky on even his best day. Cybernetic arm notwithstanding.

“It’s been too long since I've had my hands on you, snowflake,” Rumlow says in a sickly sweet tone, their faces just a few inches apart. “And, oh, how I've missed you.”

Bucky blanches, pressing himself back against the door and cursing internally when the wood doesn't swallow him whole. He’s trapped, and that feeling of being prey _ –of being stared down and hunted by a predator– _ is all-encompassing. He can smell the alcohol on Brock's breath, see the unfocused look in his dark eyes. He's drunk. Again. Which means that things are about to get very intense, and if Rumlow really was a predator, he would be able to smell the fear rolling off of Bucky like a thick mist. One wrong move and it's over for him. Rumlow will sink his teeth into Bucky's neck and tear out his throat, effectively ending him in an instant. Just like that.

Bucky doesn't say anything at all to Rumlow's greeting. His brain is going haywire, caught between drifting away and staying present. He doesn't want to be here for this, but he has to keep his wits about him. He has to make sure that Rumlow doesn't go too far and actually hurt him, because while mentally he can bottle up his pain and shove it aside for another day, physically, he'd be unable to hide the evidence from anyone. Natasha would see it and demand answers, and Bucky can't even fathom if Steve were to know. He has to be aware. The stakes are so much higher now than they were before.

Rumlow is pressing his nose against the underside of Bucky's jaw, breathing in deeply while his hand tightens in Bucky's hair; the other coming up to grab Bucky by his crotch, startling another yelp out of him. He's not hard at all, and Rumlow doesn't seem to like that one bit.

“Awe,” he coos next to Bucky's ear, sinking his teeth into the shell just hard enough to make Bucky whimper. His cock doesn't even twitch. He's far too frightened to be aroused by any of this. “What's the matter, babydoll? Don't you miss me too?”

Bucky can only nod his head, lying just to appease Brock and fighting the urge to vomit as that hand on his bulge begins to rub. Rumlow isn't gentle. He wouldn't know gentle if it jumped up and bit him in the ass. It hurts, the way Rumlow is handling his balls; squeezing and kneading with that grubby mitt he calls a hand. His back is tense, his ear is throbbing, and his dick feels like it's being toyed with by an ape. Well, it kind of  _ is, _ in a way.

But it only gets worse from there, because Brock isn't satisfied with his answer. His hand tightens around Bucky's bulge, voice dropping into a vicious snarl as he all but barks out, “Speak up! I asked you a fucking question, and you're going to give me an answer! Did. You. Miss. Me?”

He punctuates each word with a tighter squeeze of his hand, and Bucky wants to cry from how intense the pain is, curling up in his belly and making him sick to his stomach.

“Yes!” He shouts, surprised by how uneven his voice is. He can hear the tremble. The fear in his tone. And he bets that Brock can as well. “Y-yes! I-I missed you, Brock!”

That earns him a greasy smile from Rumlow, and the urge to puke has never been greater. This isn't normal, even for Rumlow, who's always been a bit unhinged during their sessions. This doesn't feel like Rumlow is just after a quick fuck. This is possessive and cruel. He's asserting his dominance over Bucky like some sort of animal, claiming him like a mate, and it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

“Good,” Brock says, pulling back just enough to flip Bucky over, pressing his chest hard against the door; his cheek smashed into the wood. He leans back in, growling his words into Bucky's ear while his hand tugs hard on Bucky's hair, yanking his head back and causing a few tears to spill from the sting. “I like that. I like hearing how you miss me when we're apart, snowflake. I bet you dream about it, taking my cock up that perfect ass, even when you're with others. Even when you're with  _ him. _ Isn't that right, sweetheart? Tell me what I wanna hear. Tell me how much you think about me, how you need it,  _ crave _ it.”

Bucky can't find his voice. He’s strangled by the icy grip of terror, knowing what this is now and what’s about to happen. He shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake.

Suddenly, he gets why Natasha was always so adamant about him leaving the business. Why she feared for his safety. Because things like this can happen to anyone at any time and for any reason. The fact that he's a man doesn't exempt him. The fact that he's an escort doesn't exempt him either. Bucky isn't immune to these types of attacks, and in fact, he's actually more susceptible to them than anyone else. Natasha wasn't being an overbearing friend. She was looking out for him.

He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to do this anymore, and it's sad that it took something horrifying like this to happen for him to finally come to that conclusion. But what can he do? He can't just... _ quit, _ can he?

No. Rumlow would never allow that. He has nothing left to fall back on either.

This is so much bigger than him. He's tangled up in so many different wires now that he can't move. Steve, Sam, Brock, Natasha. A different wire for each of his limbs, and all of them are tugging his body in a separate direction. Eventually, Bucky's going tear himself apart at the seams, and then no one will want him. Not even Steve.

God, he wants Steve. What he wouldn't give to feel his kind touch instead of these rough and possessive hands on his body.

Rumlow snarls, slamming his fist into the door right next to Bucky's face, jarring him back to reality. Rumlow was waiting for his response, and it seems that Bucky's exasperated every ounce of patience that this man has left, which wasn't much to being with.

“TELL ME!!!” Rumlow snaps, and Bucky flinches, hard.

“I-I can't–” he stammers, sucking in a shallow breath and squeezing his eyes shut. “St-stop thinking of you.”

“Yeah?” Rumlow grits out, hissing through his clenched teeth. “What can't you stop thinking about, sweetheart?”

Bucky swallows. “Y-your cock. The way you fuck me like no one else can.”

“And what about  _ him?” _ Brock asks, getting to the meat of the matter. “Am I better than he is, snowflake? Does he even compare?”

_ You could never compare to Steve. You’re nothing but shit smeared on his bootheel! _

“I-I don't know what you're talking about.” He says instead, and his meek voice is met with incredulous laughter.

Bucky is pulled away from the door by his hair and led towards the bedroom, stumbling over his own feet since his legs can't seem to hold his weight at the moment.

“Thought you'd say that,” Rumlow says, tossing Bucky onto the bedroom floor rather than on the bed. He lands with an audible thud, and Rumlow's knee is pressing against his spine; pinning him down on his stomach as he grabs something Bucky can't see from the nightstand.

He feels it pressing up against his neck a moment later, and Bucky’s heart squeezes painfully once he realizes what Rumlow has in his hand. A goddam knife is tucked tightly against the underside of his jaw, right where his carotid artery is. And it's no pocket knife.

“You must think I'm pretty fuckin’ stupid, hm?” Rumlow is eerily calm, which just makes Bucky panic all the more. He's completely in control of the situation and he knows it. Bucky can’t even fight back if he wanted to. But he doubts that he could even move on his own volition right now. He's absolutely paralyzed.

“You look at him differently.” Rumlow goes on to explain when Bucky doesn't speak. “Like it's real, this little game you play with your clients. Like he's more important than anyone else. More important than me!”

The blade cuts into his skin a little deeper; nicking his skin and causing little pearls of blood to surface. Bucky winces but forces himself to speak. To deny it all.

He has to protect Steve. Rumlow can't know about them. Ever.

“S'not true! I swear it!” He chokes out. “He's just a client, Brock! Nothing more!”

“You really expect me to believe that bullshit?”

“He means nothing to me! I'm only after the money. That's it, I swear! I have to act that way around him. I-It's just a part of the game for him!”

“You're a terrible liar, snowflake.” Brock rumbles, but the hand in his hair is loosening; now sliding down his back to the seat of his pants. “But I think I know of a way for you to prove it to me. Prove that you're just as easy for me as you are with him.”

Bucky hears more than he feels the fabric tearing, and his heart drops into his gut like a lead weight.

“Brock,  _ please–” _

“Shh, snowflake,” he soothes, shifting his weight back onto Bucky's thighs; spreading them wide and pinning them down to the floor with his knees. “You want this, yeah? You wanna prove that you're telling the truth. That you're mine and not his? This is how you're gonna do it.”

Tears are slowly slipping from his eyes. He tries to thrash but the knife stops him short from slitting his own throat. He'll have to explain to Natasha how he came to get the cuts on his neck, and probably Steve, if they ever see each other again after this. But he can't really think about that right now.

He feels the pull of a zipper echo deep within his bones, and everything goes completely still. Rumlow is spitting into his hand, shoving his sausage-like fingers into him just to do the bare minimum so Bucky doesn't split in half when he pushes in. His prep is always perfunctory, so Bucky stretches himself at home to help prevent any tearing. Brock isn't a small man, and taking his girth is difficult even when prep is carried out correctly.

There's a moment of silence, the touch of a blunt head against his rim, and then his world whites out in an inferno of searing pain.  

He doesn't know how long it lasts, or what Rumlow says to make him cry the way he is right now, but the boiling hot release that’s leaking out of him is enough to snap him back into the present.

He didn't use a condom.

Rumlow is panting, still holding the knife against Bucky’s throat, still jackrabbiting into Bucky's ass and making a mess of his already ruined clothes. He's naked from the chest up and his pants are torn open in the back, and he figures that Rumlow must have cut his shirt off of him due to the cuts on his shoulder blades.

He's saying something, though everything sounds like water in his ears right now. It takes him a moment to figure out what it is, and he shudders violently with disgust once he does.

“Are you mine?” He’s asking, more like demanding. “Tell me who you belong to, you fucking  _ whore! _ Who owns you?!”

_ Steve... _

The answer is automatic, but it makes his stomach turn; bile rising up in his throat. “Y-you!”

Rumlow makes him say it again before he finally pulls out, but he leaves the knife where it is for a moment longer. “You better be. ‘Cause I don't know what I'd do if I found out you were lying to me. Using me.” The blade cuts in a bit deeper, and Bucky is hyperventilating with panic; black spots clouding up his vision. “Why, I might just do something a little crazy. ‘Cause if I can't have you, then no one else can either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are always welcome and appreciated. Thank you guys for sticking with me and reading up to this point. You guys are awesome.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for anxiety attacks, thoughts of self-harm, mentions of rape.

It’s still dark outside when Bucky finally comes to. His body is stiff and sore, racked with the discomfort that radiates from his scalp to his sacrum. He blinks slowly, and the fog that surrounds his brain lingers for a few moments before lifting just enough for him to think, and the sudden burst of clarity he gets from this is so world-shattering that he instantly feels nauseated, sort of like he's been on a tilt-a-whirl for the past few hours and is just now stepping off.

He can feel the weight of another body pressed against his back, hot, sticky skin glued to his own in a mess of spend and sweat. They're not spooning like he initially thought. His chest is pressed against the stripped bare mattress (when the hell did he end up there?), and the body behind him is practically lying on top of him, crushing him under a hefty weight that makes it difficult to breathe in deeply.

Bucky drags in a shallow breath, goosebumps spreading across his naked flesh when he feels short bursts of hot air hitting the back of his neck. His stomach turns from the smell of alcohol and morning breath, but it's only once the confusion of drifting off slips away that he retches with such force he's surprised nothing comes up at all.

This isn't just some nameless client lying behind him. It's Rumlow. The man that held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him. The same man that used brute force and scare tactics to  _ rape _ him, probably more than once if the way he's feeling now has any bearing on what happened while he checked out mentally.

Bucky silently thanks God that he's been able to dissociate during times of intense stress (courtesy of having his arm blown off). He doesn't want to know every sick thing Rumlow did to him last night, but he, unfortunately, remembers the threats and violence that led to his decision to float away entirely in the first place. He'd tried to stay present for as long as he could. Actually attempted to fight back before Brock brought out the knife again, but Rumlow was completely unhinged last night and the point to stay aware became moot after the second hour of his assault. From what Bucky was able to gather, Rumlow truly thinks that Bucky is  _ his property, _ like he's just some pretty trinket for him to touch and look at whenever he pleases. Rumlow doesn't see Bucky as a human being. He's just a possession.

He's also figured out (unsurprisingly) that Rumlow had been following him long enough to know that he'd been out with Steve on more than one occasion. He’d already known about the bar where they'd initially met, but Rumlow had been around, lurking in the shadows in secret, to see him bump into Steve at the bakery a few days after that, and again when Steve took him out on a date to the jazz club and then back to Steve's home later that same night. He's not sure if Rumlow caught any glimpses of Bucky and Steve holding hands, kissing, dancing, etc, but he knows enough about how Bucky conducts himself around clients to see that Steve was getting special treatment.

As he'd said last night, Bucky looks at Steve differently. He can't deny that internally, but he'll swear up and down to Rumlow that Steve means nothing to him, simply because he fears for Steve's safety. Rumlow threatened to kill Bucky if he ever found out, so it's not exactly a stretch for him to think that he'd do the same to Steve if given the chance.

That thought alone makes his skin crawl, and it doesn't help that Rumlow's sweaty body is rubbing up against his own, reminding him how foul this man truly is in all aspects.

Objectively, Bucky can say that Rumlow is a handsome man. He's fit and muscular, with tan skin, dark hair, and smoldering brown eyes. His voice is like thick smoke; deep and smooth as it curls around his head, but those things are all on the surface. It's not who Rumlow is.

Subjectively, Rumlow is a complete psychopath that has homicidal tendencies, a drinking problem, and severe anger issues. He's insecure in his masculinity, and so he hurts others to prove himself superior. He knows he would never stand a chance at obtaining Bucky in the traditional way, so he uses intimidation, violence, and blackmail to get what he wants. He's a cruel man with a soul as black and empty as his eyes, and he'll never stop pursuing Bucky until either he kills him, or Bucky just gives in and accepts his fate as Rumlow's toy.

But he will  _ not _ accept that fate today.

Rumlow may scare him, beat him, defile his body in vicious ways to try and break him down, but Bucky cannot relent right now. His life may be a complex web of lies and tragedy, but it's still his own. Rumlow doesn't own him. He cannot have him. It's just the way he has to think if he's going to get through this. Bucky can't allow what Rumlow did to affect his life, because he knows that's what he wants. He wants Bucky to give up and give in, to let Steve go and believe the lies that Rumlow's been telling him: that he's just a whore and he'll never be good for anything else. Steve would say it's a lie. Steve wouldn't want him to believe those things, even if he disliked Bucky and what he did for a living. Steve just isn't that type of person.

Or, at least, he tells himself that. Bucky can't see Steve in that kind of light, but does he really know for sure? No. He doesn't. But what more can he do?  

Rumlow is snoring in his ear, holding onto his waist loosely with a limp arm slack with sleep. He shifts, rolling a little to the left and onto his back; finally freeing Bucky from under him.

He doesn't dare move an inch just yet. His body is as tense as a guitar string set to snap, and he can hear his pulse drumming in his ears wildly. He's waiting for Rumlow to stir, to come back to consciousness and start the cycle of abuse and terror all over again. But it doesn't happen.

Rumlow is still asleep.

Ever so slowly, Bucky turns his head to the left, now able to see Rumlow for the first time since he'd arrived last night. For some reason, Brock kept Bucky's back to him for most of the night, even when he was...well, it goes without saying, but it's almost like he didn't want to look Bucky in the eye while he was doing it, like that was a line he wouldn't cross. Or maybe there was no real reason and Bucky is just grasping at thin air.

Regardless, he imagines that he'd feel terrified or maybe even sullen when he actually looks at Rumlow after the fact, but he doesn't. Not really. Bucky feels...disgusted, like he wants to scrape the skin off his bones and soak himself in bleach, just to remove every trace of Rumlow from his body.

He remembers the sensation of Rumlow emptying himself deep inside of him, of the spit on Brock's fingers and the feeling of his hand in Bucky's hair, and his stomach twists with a new sense of horror and revulsion.

That  _ pig _ marked him last night. Fucking  _ marked him _ like an animal, claiming him as a mate or some shit, and in Rumlow's fucked up mind, that's probably what it was all about. Jealousy over Steve and how smitten Bucky is for him, so he chose to do something horrible and disgusting to assert himself over Steve and stake his claim, like that would somehow deter them from being together.

It wouldn't.

At least, for now, it wouldn't.

Bucky continues to watch as Rumlow sleeps like a recently fed baby, shoving his anger and frustration down into the pit of his belly for now. He couldn't have a meltdown here. Not when he was lying no more than two inches away from his rapist, who would probably wake any minute now and take him again once he saw Bucky beside him like this; naked and defeated. He has to get the fuck out of here before Rumlow catches him, and then–once he’s safely locked away in his room back home–only then can he scream and cry, break shit and have his little breakdown until he can pull himself back together and act like nothing at all is wrong.

He moves slowly, inch by inch until his right leg slides off the side of the bed and his toes touch the floor. The left follows after a momentary pause, and within seconds Bucky is standing on slightly trembling legs next to Rumlow's sleeping form. He takes a quiet breath in, silently sighing with relief when Rumlow didn't stir.

Bucky is naked and covered with various body fluids; from blood to semen, spit and what smells like vodka clinging to his matted hair. He has no time to shower. Can't wear his clothes home due to the fact that they are basically torn to shreds, and walking outside like this; naked and dazed on a Sunday morning, would surely attract the wrong kind of attention from passersby, who’d take one look at him and think that he was drunk off his ass.

Not that that was even an option. He'd have the cops on him so fast it'd make his head spin, and then he'd be neck deep in shit with Natasha that he's actively been trying to avoid for the past few months.

No. The logical option here would be to steal something from Rumlow's closet, wear it home–no matter how much that makes him want to vomit–then go from there. Once he's home and safe, then he can worry about which disease Rumlow's potentially carrying and how he's supposed to deal with this and everything else that's been heaped onto his shoulders recently. He just has to keep it together for a little bit longer and then he'll be alright.

With a quick glance down, Bucky spots the jeans and t-shirt Rumlow was wearing the previous night, still intact next to the shoes Bucky wore over here. He didn't even hesitate, bending down and pulling them on; gritting his teeth through the wave of discomfort that ebbs and flows each time he moves too quickly.

The jeans are about two sizes too big (which Bucky has to hold up with his hand to keep them from falling off completely) and the shirt looks more like a dress on him than anything, but it would have to do for now. Yeah, he'll look fucking weird as all hell out there and probably receive a few stares, but he just can't bring himself to care much about that.

Bucky keeps his eyes locked on Rumlow as he slips on his shoes, leaning down to grab and pocket his phone from its place on the floor before slowly and quietly backing away from the bed.

He can hear his own pulse in his ears, and his breathing sounds loud and harsh in the early morning quiet of Rumlow's apartment. Even his footsteps are reminiscent of thunder to his own panicked mind, which keeps reminding him that Rumlow could wake up any second now and catch him trying to escape. It didn't help that Rumlow's deep and even breathing had changed to something shallow and slightly aware, like he was coming back to himself faster than Bucky had anticipated.

His right foot slides back, bearing his weight down on the hardwood flooring that groans loudly in protest, forcing him to freeze once Rumlow's snore cuts off abruptly.

Bucky's eyes widen, pupils dilating as pure unfiltered terror courses through his veins; rushing with his quickening heart that’s beating against his ribs.

He doesn't move. Doesn't make a sound. Can't even convince himself to breathe as Rumlow shifts, cracks his eyes open, stares at Bucky for what feels like a lifetime, and then slowly closes his eyes and beings to snore once again.

Bucky is almost sure he's about to pass out, standing stock still and lightheaded in the threshold of the bedroom. He watches Rumlow for another minute or two. Can't move a muscle until his brain is convinced that it's not just an act, that Rumlow really is asleep and none the wiser to what he's doing. But once he can move, Bucky hauls ass across the living room and into the kitchen, reaching out for the door and throwing it open once his fingers stopped shaking long enough for him to undo the latch and the bolt on the door.

He practically flings himself into the empty hallway, leaving Rumlow's door wide open and tearing down the hall and into the stairwell. He doesn't even think of taking the elevator until he's about ten floors down, tripping over his own unsteady feet and panting like his lungs are full of lead. His pants are hanging down over his bare ass, sweat beading at his temples and sliding down his face to mix with the tears that suddenly spring from his eyes. He feels like he's tearing in two, each seam that holds him together ripping open until his guts are spilling out onto the floor and Bucky is collapsing to his knees to vomit right there in the stairwell.

He's shaking violently, unable to see or hear much of anything as his senses darken and dull and the world caves in around him. He's panicking. He knows he is and the reason why he is, but that knowledge does nothing to stop it once it starts. It's like he's caught in the undertow, unable to reach the surface no matter how hard he fights to swim against it; kicking out and exhausting himself when it gets him nowhere. But he can't have an anxiety attack here. Not here, where Rumlow is, probably awake and looking for him somewhere in the building.

His face is soaked and his hands are freezing cold, trembling as he tries to card his fingers through his hair damp with cold-sweat.

“Get up,” he tells himself, unsure if he’s just thinking it or saying it out loud. He can't hear anything over the dull ringing in his head, but his lips are moving so he must be taking.

“Get up, James.” He rasps louder in an attempt to hear his own voice.  _ “Get. Up.” _

Bucky sucks in a ragged breath, pushes himself up to his feet and forces himself to keep moving. Now is not the time for fear. Now is the time for action.

He doesn't take the elevator. Doesn't trust it enough to even consider it, even when his legs are tired and his body feels like warm jelly on scalding pavement. He can't fathom the thought of watching those doors open, thinking that he'll find the salvation of an empty elevator, and finding Rumlow there instead. That fear is enough to keep him going, to push him through the pain and fatigue until he finally,  _ finally _ reaches the base floor and stumbles out into the lobby, then the busy street just beyond the doors.

He knows people are staring at him. He's loosely clothed and his shirt is stained with vomit. His skin is pale and sweaty, and his eyes are bloodshot and lined with tears that won't stop falling no matter what he does. Bucky is a mess, and he just wants to get out of here and back home before Rumlow somehow figures out that he’s gone and comes after him before he’s even a block away.

Bucky doesn't remember how he ended up in the back of a cab, or if he has any money on him, but before he knows it he's back outside in the frigid morning air, dragging his feet up the stairs to his building and throwing himself into the elevator; then moments later, his apartment.

Somehow, he managed to grab his keys and wallet as well, but for the life of him, he doesn't recall when that was or how he had the mental capacity to stop and remember that he needed those things in the first place. He’s grateful, but Bucky is also confused and scared, hurt, and exhausted beyond the physical sense from the shit he's just had to endure.

Natasha is in her room, most likely sleeping for her upcoming graveyard shift, and Bucky is both thankful for it and conflicted about it. He needs someone to comfort him right now, but the sad truth is that he doesn't have anyone he can turn to for this.

If he seeks out comfort, questions will follow. Questions he can't answer. So once again, he's all on his own.

The apartment is deathly quiet and Bucky hates it, wishing for sound and maybe the company of another that he can curl up next to and just...weep. It's all his body seems to want to do right now, and by the time he's shut and locked his bedroom door, Bucky is back on the floor, curled up in a tight little ball of anguish, and all he can do is silently cry.

He can't scream. Can't trash his room and feel the satisfaction of things breaking under his hands. He can't even move. He's paralyzed again, but for a completely different reason.

Bucky is angry beyond what he can comprehend, and his brain has just...shut down completely because of it. His only outlet for it is pathetic and unsatisfying, and his skin feels entirely too tight around his bones, tearing each time he takes a breath. He wants to claw at himself, rake his nails down his flesh just to get it off.

He still feels Rumlow on him, inside of him, holding that fucking knife against his throat while he did what he did. And the part that really gets to Bucky is the fact that he did  _ nothing _ at all to stop it from happening. He's a goddamn army veteran for fuck's sake, and he couldn't even protect himself from Rumlow. In his mind, he’s nothing but a coward.

But the truth of it is that his hands were tied by his own actions. He couldn't stop it because he was afraid of what Rumlow would do if he tried. It's like he's eight years old again, terrified of Becca telling on him after he did something stupid, so he does whatever she wants until the tables were turned and he had leverage on her again. Only this time, Bucky has no leverage. Rumlow could end him with a single sentence, strip away Natasha and Steve and there wouldn't be a damn thing that he could do or say to stop it from happening.

He's truly fucked, and he knows it.

So he lays there, sobbing on the floor of his bedroom until he physically can't form tears anymore. Bucky has no idea how long he's been there, but his phone has gone off twice in the span of...however long it's been, and it's only once he looks at his screen that he realizes he's been on the floor for four hours now.

It's noon, and Steve has just messaged him to see how his day is going.

Bucky sighs. There's one before it as well, simply saying good morning, and one before that that says goodnight. He has one unread message from Sam asking for him to call him so they can talk about this mess and hash it out, but Bucky pointedly ignores it. He ignores all of them actually, turning his phone off and leaving it there on the floor as he moves to crawl his way into the bathroom.

He manages to get the shower going, strips himself and sits down in the tub with his knees pulled up to his chest, just letting the scalding hot water pelt his skin like rain and wondering why he can't feel the heat at all. He's still cold and shivering–numb, his brain slowly supplies–and he supposes that's what it is.

He doesn't feel anything right now, and it's blissfully freeing and yet he's as empty as a void at the same time. He doesn't mind it. Anything is better than terror, he thinks, but he knows it won't last.

He's felt this way before, after he lost his arm.  _ Numb. _ But before long he was angry and bitter, drowning out his emotions with sex and alcohol, even after the surgery gave it back to him.

He wonders how long it'll take for him to feel again this time. Maybe it'd be better if he just...didn't.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regardless of whatever happens in MCU canon, I will continue to ship and write Stucky until my muse for this ship flickers out (which is hopefully never). These two are just too precious to leave behind.

It takes Bucky most of the evening to finally pull himself out of the shower. He's exhausted on so many levels, honestly wishing that he could just crawl into bed and close his eyes, hopefully, to awaken from this nightmare that's become his existence lately or, perhaps, just not at all. That empty numbness that surrounded him in the shower is still present, and he finds that he's unable to really feel how raw and irritated his skin is after he'd scraped off a layer or two with his loofa and some lavender-scented bleach he'd found under the sink.

His hair is drying and starting to curl, the ends still damp and soaking into the fabric of Steve's Army sweats he'd borrowed the other day. He's made a considerable effort to cover as much skin as he possibly can, even going so far as to hide his hands in the sleeves of Steve's sweater; his feet clad in two pairs of socks just to keep himself covered and warm, even though he barely feels a thing.

His phone is still powered off, lying where he’d left it on the floor. A small part of him recognizes that he should probably contact Steve in some capacity and let him know he's not dead in a ditch somewhere–or just straight up ignoring him like he’s possibly thinking Bucky is–but the thought is quick to dissipate into the background of white noise that's buzzing in the core of Bucky's brain. He can't talk to Steve right now. Not after everything that’s happened with Rumlow and Sam, who's still waiting for Bucky to acknowledge the shit he's pulled with Steve, but it's safe to say that Bucky’s a bit reluctant to stick his hand into that bear trap just yet.

One thing at a time, he tells himself. Not only does he have to figure out how he's going to deal with Rumlow and what just happened to him, but he's also neck-deep in uncharted territory with Steve–who still doesn't know that Bucky was paid to be interested in him in the first place–and he's pretty sure that Natasha will kill him dead if he doesn't fess up to that soon. She's patient when she wants to be, but Bucky knows full well that her patience regarding this particular situation is quickly drying up. She’d never overstep and rat Bucky out, but that's not really the point here. Natasha is counting on him to man up and do the right thing, and if he doesn't, then knowing how disappointed (and frankly, disgusted) she’ll be with him is punishment enough.

When it really comes down to it, Natasha is all he's got in this world. People come and go. That's just a fact of life. But Natasha is there for him when nobody else is. She understands him. Supports him in whatever he does. She loves him unconditionally and he loves her the same, and so, he simply cannot lose her. Ever. Not even for someone as wonderful as Steve, it turns out. But that's a thought for another day, when his chest doesn't feel so empty and his skull isn't filled with lead, weighing his head down to the pillow underneath his flushed cheek.

The tears have mostly dried up, but the urge to cry–to expel that icy sense on sorrow that's dug its way into the marrow of his bones–is still there, compounded by how quiet his bedroom is and the knowledge that he's completely alone in this. Not just in a literal sense, but emotionally as well.

No one can know what he'd let Rumlow do to him. How far he's fallen. Not Steve, not Nat. Nobody. It's his shame that'll keep his lips sealed shut, and he'll carry that around on his shoulders till the day he dies. A secret he'll take with him to the grave, never to see the light of day if he can help it.

But still, lying there on his bed in a bundle of blankets to keep out the cold that isn't even there, Bucky finds that he doesn't want to be alone.

He can hear that Natasha is up and moving around the apartment, probably cooking something in the kitchen–which reminds Bucky that he hasn't eaten a thing in over twenty-four hours. Not that he really cares too much about that. Anything he puts in his stomach will come right back up anyway, so there's no point in even trying. Besides, it's not like he feels the hunger or nausea that clawing up his stomach or anything. Honestly, Bucky is grateful that he can't feel a damn thing. He doesn't want to feel. Not now, at least.

He huffs softly into the pillow, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep. He doesn't quite manage to get there, seeing how every time his eyes close he sees Rumlow starting down at him with that fucking feral grin that splits his face like some creature from a horror flick.

The idea of sleep is abruptly abandoned, and Bucky somehow manages to shove himself out of his bed and stumble into the tiny hallway that separates his room from Natasha's.

She's on the couch, sipping on some kind of herbal tea that smells like peppermint and roses. The television is softly filling up the living room with noise; voices and cinematic music from a movie she's idly watching before she has to leave for her graveyard shift in a few hours.

Bucky doesn't move from his spot in the hall, and her sharp green eyes flick to where he's stiffly standing just outside his bedroom door. Natasha's relaxed expression abruptly changes to one of deep concern; her brow wrinkling and eyes narrowed.

He hasn't been able to look at himself in the mirror yet, but he figures that he must look a certain way right about now. Slate blue eyes wild and red-rimmed. Posture hunched and uncertain; limbs twitchy. Lost and seeking something he knows he doesn't deserve. It's the same way he used to look after she'd brought him home from the hospital the first time; when his mind was fractured and his body mangled and scarred.

“Yasha?” She questions, voice soft like cashmere. It's a name she hasn't used for him in quite a while, but his chin wobbles and his chest constricts all the same; knowing that she sees right through him. Sees his pain and confusion. She somehow always knows when Bucky is struggling, like its a sixth sense. And even though he hasn't been this way in years, she sees that something is very wrong. Just the use of that epithet brings him back to a time when he used to cling to her at every moment and speech was just a concept he wasn't going to consider anytime soon. She knows something happened, and it's both a comfort and a burden to him.

Bucky can't speak with how tight his throat is becoming, and Nat doesn't try and make him. She just sets her cup down on the coffee table, leans back against the couch and pats her thigh, schooling her expression into one that's comforting and open as she invites him to lay with her in the quiet of the living room.

His feet move of their own accord, dragging his weary body forward until he’s able to crawl onto the couch and lay his head down onto her lap; practically collapsing in a heap once he's settled. Breathing erratic and shallow; eyes distant and glazed.

Natasha's mouth twists at the strong scent of bleach clinging to Bucky's skin, but she doesn't comment on it. She knows enough about Bucky to understand one important thing: that trying to get him to open up when he's like this is the literal equivalent of draining blood from stones. He’ll tell her when he wants to and not a moment sooner, no matter what she does or says, so it's better if she doesn't say anything about it at all.

She's not ignoring the problem, but pressing for information is a sure-fire way to get Bucky to shut down completely. He came to her for comfort, and it must have been something truly terrible for him to seek her out in the first place rather than just stuffing his pain into the far corners of his mind like he often does. That alone is enough of a reason for her push down the urge to ask questions.

“I'm here, Yasha,” she says instead, and Bucky is grateful for it. “You’re okay. We're okay.–Just breathe, alright? You remember how we do it?”

Bucky remembers. Breathe in _–one, two, three, four–_ hold _–one, two, three, four,–_ exhale _–one, two, three, four,_ repeat. So that's just what he does. Breathes in and out. In and out. Over and over again.

Natasha has her hand in his hair, combing her thin fingers through it and scratching her manicured nails against his scalp in a soothing manner. Bucky melts into it like hot butter, sighing out a sob he doesn't really feel until his cheeks are wet and his eyes blurry with tear-matted lashes. But still, Nat doesn't say a thing, just continues to softly pet his hair like she knows he likes. It's really all he wants right now anyway. If he told her she'd just be upset with him, and Bucky already knows that this is his fault. He shouldn't have gone to Brock's apartment. He knew that the man was unstable on even his best days, so it's really no surprise that he was attacked.

His rational mind–the one that remembers Nat's brief stint in sex crimes–recognizes this for what it is. He's in shock. _He was raped._ It wasn't his fault, and he shouldn't blame himself for what happened to him. Hindsight is 20/20, and there are a million and one things that he could have done differently, but it doesn't change a thing; what's done is done and he can't go back, he can only move forward.

The lizard part of his brain, however–the one that likes self-flagellation and prefers that he shoulders the blame for all of it–is telling him that he had it coming, which is just ridiculous and he knows that, but that voice, in particular, is much louder than the other. It whispers in his ear, telling him that he knew what Rumlow would do and that he let it happen; that he's a man that sells his body on the regular and that he can't be raped because of that. It tells him that this was payback for what he's doing to Steve. Again, it's ridiculous, but those thoughts have already sunk their claws into him and laid claim over his mind, and so, he believes it because he doesn't want to be a victim. He can’t press charges. Can't point the finger and condemn Rumlow without first condemning himself and Natasha to boot. It's best if he just tries to let it go. Forget that it even happened at all.

His senses have narrowed down to just the basics: fingers in his hair, floral peppermint clinging to the inside of his nose, and the warmth of Natasha's thighs pillowed against his cheek. Time slows to a crawl, flowing around him syrupy thick. His vision is unfocused and blurred, darkness creeping in at the sides like shadows in the night.

Something changes. The warmth under his cheek has gone cold, the tingling in his scalp just a reminder of fists tangled into his long hair; tugging back and holding tight. His eyes fly open with a start and his body snaps to sit up like a rubber band pulled too taut.

Bucky's heart is rabbiting against his ribs, mind swimming; reality slowly returning to him, bittersweet on his tongue like dark honey.

Natasha is gone, the television still on in the background and playing some infomercial about _Gotham Steel_ frying pans. A quick glance up to the clock on the wall confirms that he's lost time again; nearly ten hours this time. Was he sleeping, or just floating away again? He can't really tell. All he knows is that Natasha left the house at ten the previous night, and it's now eight in the morning and the sunlight is saturating their apartment in pale shades of white and yellow.

He looks down at the coffee table, sees a note scrawled in perfect red penmanship next to his phone; the one he actually uses for everyday life. There's was also a pillow under his head and a soft blanket covering his legs.

Bucky chews his bottom lip, can't help but notice that the napkin Steve used to jot down his phone number is sitting underneath his phone, like Natasha’s trying to hint at something obvious. She must have talked to Sam at some point last night. Either that, or her intuition is alarmingly dead on.

He picks up the note, reads it silently and tries not to think about yesterday. He doesn't have to explain himself, but this situation is getting far too complicated (and dangerous) to ignore anymore. Rumlow proved that point fairly well, in his own disgusting way. He has too much baggage attached to him, but he has no idea how he's even supposed to go about fixing that.

 

 

 

> _Yasha,_
> 
> _Don't know what happened and you know I won't ask, but I'm here if you need me. I'm sorry I had to leave. Didn't really have a choice this time, since Fury's on our asses about closing this case in a timely manner. We can talk later if you want. Make sure you eat something and take some time for yourself. You can't heal an injury without rest, even if it's only in your head._
> 
> _I love you,_
> 
> _Nat_
> 
> _P.s. Call Steve. He's worried sick about you._
> 
>  

Bucky sighs. So she did talk to Sam. Figures. He knows he should, knows he owes it to Steve to tell him why there's been radio silence from Bucky for the past few days; even if it's just another lie he'll tell to put his mind at ease. It's what he should do. What he needs to do.

No–he thinks. What he needs to do _first_ is sit out on the fire escape and have a smoke, then a drink to soothe his nerves, then deal with his clientele for this week. Once that's done and sorted out, he can focus on Steve.

Life doesn't just stop when something shitty happens, and he can't rely on Natasha to pull him back up on his feet whenever he feels weak and helpless. Shit happens. Life goes on. He already has the tools he needs to forget at his disposal: the very same he used in the past. It worked to numb the pain before and it can do it again now.

With that thought in mind, Bucky slides off the couch and shambles into his bedroom; finding his pack of smokes and lighter with a startling wave of something that feels akin to relief. He fixes himself a stiff drink–ignoring Nat's plea for him to eat–and settles down on the fire escape to drift away in a haze of smoke and booze.

 

* * *

 

 

Five days pass and Bucky still hasn't talked with Steve. Hasn't bothered to call Sam. Doesn't talk to Natasha about what the hell happened and why he's been acting so fucking weird lately. Of course, she thinks she has a pretty good idea of why Bucky is being so reclusive and snippy; irritated with himself and almost too terrified to venture outside their apartment, it seems.

Rumlow has shown up twice unannounced, banging on the door and hollering for Bucky like some drunk 1950s husband here to collect his battered wife. Both times had Bucky practically tripping over his own feet to get inside the safety of his bedroom and deadbolt the door shut while Natasha promptly dealt with the problem; telling him the last time he'd showed up drunk and belligerent, demanding to see Bucky and threatening to break the door down, that she wouldn't hesitate to pop a cap in his ass if he even tried and that no one would ever find his body if he came here looking for Bucky again.

Basically, in her own words, _“Bucky's off the menu, jackass. Learn to take a damn hint or I'll shove it down your throat till you choke and die.”_

She mentions it once the first time it happened, but Bucky just deflects and busies himself with downing the rest of his beer–his third that day, at least that she'd counted. She can't help but notice how blown his pupils are and the little tremor that makes his hands unsteady. She could practically smell the fear coming off of him in waves when Rumlow was here.

But she doesn't ask about Rumlow again and Bucky pretends to be alright, dancing around the subject whenever Steve comes up and plastering a false smile to his mouth when he blatantly lies to her face about it.

Y'know, fake it till you make it, right?

“Talk to Steve lately?” She asks in passing on her way to the kitchen on Wednesday morning, and Bucky bristles like an angry cat, growling out a _“no”_ and scowling down at his lap where his phone sits, unused.

His burner phone has been turned off since Sunday, mostly due to how frequently Rumlow calls to leave nasty voicemails and texts. His clients for the week have agreed to meet him here at the apartment for their sessions, even though Nat is against it and so was he up until Rumlow literally held him hostage at knifepoint.

He didn't think he'd be able to continue seeing clients after that, swearing up and down that he was done and couldn't possibly perform like he used to after the fact. In some ways that's true. Bucky is more cautious about what he does with his clients, sticking to handys and blow jobs on the basis that he hasn't been feeling up to par to go whole hog lately. For the most part, they’re understanding. Some, namely Sitwell, pouts and throws a fit before giving Bucky half of what he's normally paid as recompense for his imagined slights. Rollins doesn't much care what Bucky does with him and is just happy to have something touching his dick for a while.

But regardless of how hard Bucky's trying (and failing) to keep himself together and let life go on like he knows it will, he's a far cry from being okay. Natasha knows it. Even he knows it, but stubbornly refuses to acknowledge it at all.

That encompassing numbness turned out to be a double-edged sword. What was once a blissful emptiness has now morphed into an agonizing restlessness. He's jittery, practically vibrating out of his skin with nervous energy that he doesn't know how to deal with. Alcohol isn't helping like he’d hoped it would. He’s barely able to eat, either sleeps too much or far too little, and on top of that, his heart is cracking in two over the thought of what this period of silence is actually doing to Steve–the very same man he hasn't seen or spoken to since the day Rumlow used him. The man he misses and longs to talk with, but can't figure out what he would even say that wouldn't seem insufficient.

It isn't until the following Saturday night that it all comes to a head for Bucky–a full two weeks of silence between him and Steve, limping through the motions of daily life and doing a piss poor job at hiding how broken he is on the inside. He finds himself drunk off his ass on rum and coke, sitting in the back of a taxi on his way over to see Steve Rogers at fucking half past midnight, in what surely has to be his greatest lapse in judgment yet, just trying to breathe steadily and not puke from the terror of being outside his apartment for the first time since the assault.

He managed not to brain himself on the sidewalk once he was able to stumble out of the cab, and now, standing outside the front door with his finger on the doorbell, he suddenly remembered why he was here at Steve's home in the middle of the night in the first place.

Those past two weeks of utter hell have been a frustrating mix of numbness and confusion; anger, fear, and a desire to forget that he hasn't been able to achieve with anyone or anything else, despite his best efforts. He doesn't want Rumlow to be the last person to touch him as intimately as Steve has, even though he's been with others since the attack. It just feels...wrong. He can't stop thinking about it. Can't get Steve out of his head. The way he touches him, kisses him, pours out affection on him and promises him the world. Bucky needs him now more than ever, and he's just drunk and wounded enough to actually do something about it.

He knows what he wants to say. How he's going to say it. But as soon as Steve opens the door, looking sweet and softly rumpled in his navy blue pajama bottoms and no fucking shirt, his brain shuts down completely and Bucky’s entire little speech turns to ash in his mouth.

“Bucky?” Steve says, voice thick and rough with sleep. His blue eyes are kind, relieved to see him though rightfully confused as to why he's standing in Steve's doorway so late at night after going so long without contact. “where have you–”

“M’sorry I didn't call,” Bucky interjects, taking an unsteady step forward and cupping Steve's bearded jaw with his clammy hands. “Wanted t’ see you, but couldn't. Didn't let m’self…”

He trails off, knowing he's not making a lick of sense and that he's slurring his words together. But that doesn't matter right now. Because Steve is looking at him like he's the fucking prodigal son returning home, and Steve's face is cradled in his trembling hands, and suddenly the world is getting very quiet even though Steve is talking to him, staring down at him like he's been worried sick.

Steve cares about him. Steve missed him. Steve is...wait. He's angry. Steve is very, very angry with Bucky. But then again, what did he really expect after all this time? That Steve would just welcome him back with open arms, no questions asked? No. Of course not. Steve doesn't know why Bucky disappeared at all, so he has every right to be angry with him.

 _“...the hell have you been?!”_ He hears him say, tone sharp enough to cut through steel as he pulls away from Bucky's hands. _“...two weeks, Bucky! Two goddamn weeks and you just show up at my front door–”_

Bucky doesn't know why exactly he does it. He isn't sure why he does a lot of things right now. But one second he's getting his ass chewed out in the doorway of Steve's home and the next he's practically climbing the man like a damn tree, slamming their mouths together in a kiss that's more teeth and tongue than it has any right to be.

This a bad idea. He knows it is. But once he's started he can't fucking stop himself. It feels good. It feels _so fucking good_ to be held this way, clutched tightly in Steve's hands with his back shoved up against the wall. He wants Steve. Needs him to make him feel good. Needs to feel human again and not like he’s tearing himself apart at the seams. This is exactly what he needs, and by God, he'll do just about anything to get it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Yes, I'm still alive! I'm sorry about the delay in updates for this story. Apparently, my brain can only focus on one fic at a time, so I've been working on my other Stucky story called "I Can't Forget You" if you wanna check that one out 😄 anyway, I'm sorry, and thank you for sticking around❤

Steve didn't know what he'd find on the other side of his front door, slipping out of bed at the sound of tentative knocking, his right fist choking the grip of a baseball bat so hard the wood was groaning. His hair was mussed from sleep he was trying (and failing) to catch, but the concept of a good night's sleep was more elusive than smoke in the wind at this particular juncture. His head just hasn't been in the right place since Bucky abruptly left about two weeks prior, and Steve has been desperate to believe anything other than what his gut instinct has been telling him: that Bucky’d left him without a word for no other reason than he'd changed his mind about Steve. That he'd boldly taken a chance on the wrong person and was justly rewarded in kind with rejection.

His talks with Sam had done little to quell that bubbling cauldron of anxiety that was now boiling over, and Bucky hadn't even attempted to return a single text or call from him, even going so far as to shut his phone off after the first few messages were read and disregarded just as quickly.

It hurt. Steve wasn't going to deny that it hurt. His heart feels choked and battered, pumping just because it's too stubborn to stop and let Steve finally find rest with his lost family. He’s moving for the sake of motion, drifting through the days in a suffocating fog and praying that he'd at least be able to find closure with Bucky before closing that door to their future together entirely. But Bucky seems pretty adamant that he wants no part of what Steve has to offer, which is, quite frankly, confusing.

Bucky is very guarded and cagey about himself around Steve, and he's noticed a few red flags that have popped up here and there over the past few weeks they've spent getting to know each other. Most notably, is Bucky's personal life, or more specifically, his job. Steve doesn't actually know what Bucky does for a living, but his vague description of it suggests a few things right off the bat.

Either he's some sort of self-conscious freelance artist that earns money from commissions, or he's something else that's just using those descriptors very loosely. Practically anything could be seen as an art form these days, but Steve wasn't born yesterday, and he's been slowly putting the pieces of the puzzle together to form quite an interesting picture.

Sam's lack of knowledge on Bucky doesn't seem to add up, and he's backed off from playing cupid ever since that night he blew off Steve at the tavern. The very same place he met Bucky, who was sitting in Sam's seat, no less. It doesn't help that Steve has never seen Bucky there before then either, and newcomers don't just show up at Sean’s Bar for the hell of it. It's a little hole in the wall place that pretty much only locals know about or frequent, so the chances of Bucky randomly stumbling upon it on his way through are pretty slim.

Steve can't help but think that maybe Sam met Bucky somewhere else (that maybe they're acquaintances through a mutual friend), and then set it up for Bucky to meet Steve. Like a blind date they didn't know they were going on, necessarily. He could see it happening, knowing Sam like he thinks he does. But that doesn't explain why Bucky became so edgy when Sam called, or why Sam won't acknowledge that he knows Bucky at all, or even why Bucky refuses to tell Steve what he is. It just doesn't make any sense to him, and now Bucky has just up and left without any notion as to why he's abandoned Steve so suddenly, and he doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

He's never been into playing games with people, especially when he's dealing with fragile emotions with more destructive power than a brick of C4 if they're mishandled. He hates that shit, which is one of the reasons he was so drawn to Peggy Carter. She was a no-nonsense, gorgeously feisty firecracker that knew exactly what she wanted and how best to get it. Steve loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her.

They were good together, clashing often with dual-headstrong personalities, but always able to find a compromise that worked for their benefit. Peggy wasn't afraid to go toe-to-toe with Steve if she through that he was in the wrong, which is something he doesn't share yet with Bucky. They could have a dynamic like that, and Steve can see that Bucky isn't exactly a pushover when it comes to certain things, but then again, he isn't trying to compare the two against each other. That isn't fair to Peggy or Bucky, who are different people and mean different things to Steve.

Peggy will always hold a very special, untouchable place in Steve's heart, and he'll always love her and their unborn daughter too, but Bucky is special in his own right. He was the first person since Peggy that Steve ever connected with, despite the gaps in context regarding certain things. Steve is drawn to him just as strongly as he was with Peggy, and he knows that they could be something magnificent if they allowed their relationship to blossom. Bucky is sweet and intuitive, smart, and sexy as all hell, which only makes this situation that much worse for Steve.

He's heartbroken over someone he barely had a chance to know, and he doesn't think he'll ever get the chance to exist in Bucky's world ever again.

So imagine his surprise when he peers through the peephole in the door, fully intending to see someone he doesn't know–since his friends know better than to drop by in the middle of the night, and finds Bucky standing there instead.

Steve sets the baseball bat against the wall by the door, sucking in a deep breath to fortify himself as he wrapped his fingers around the knob and opened the door.

Steve almost forgot that he’s only wearing sleep pants and not much else to be considered decent enough to receive guests, and Bucky's expression fully mirrored his own once he'd realized that. But there was something else there as well. Something beyond the shock and relief, the lust and want that festered underneath his skin. Bucky's gorgeous silver-blue eyes were unfocused and bloodshot, lined with the deep purple bags of exhaustion. His lips are bit chapped, and Bucky is nervously chewing on his lower lip as he takes Steve’s appearance in. To put it simply, Bucky is very obviously struggling with something, and the strong scent of alcohol that nearly covered up that precious citrus that clung to his tousled hair could only mean that he was dealing with whatever it was very poorly as well.

Steve's own shock and anger, disappointment, and relief all but erupt like a sleeping volcano once his eyes drink Bucky in, and before he can even think or process what he's saying and why, the words came pouring out of his mouth in a haze of barely contained rage, sweeping over Bucky and drowning out the nonsense he's been slurring.

Steve fully intended to chew Bucky out and let him have the full brunt of everything that's been stewing inside of his chest since he'd left, but he didn't intend on Bucky to fling himself at him and shut him up with a sloppy, but very desperate kiss, making his brain short circuit quite effectively.

Bucky has his arms around Steve's neck and his thighs hooked over Steve's waist; ankles locked at the small of his back to keep him upright even if Steve’s hands hadn't decided to betray him and hold Bucky up by his ass instead. He hadn't meant to return the searing hot kisses, or to push Bucky up against the foyer wall so harshly it made him whimper when his head knocked into the drywall. He just couldn't think straight when Bucky was in his arms like this, doing things with his tongue that made Steve's spine tingle, and letting out noises that were far more pornographic than any of the shit he's seen in his adolescent years. There was only that raw nerve that screamed for Bucky, begging to be soothed and longing for his soft lips to taste and that damn scent of Bucky's shampoo to fill his nose up with sweet citrus.

But once again, something in the back of his mind (that his body was desperately trying to quiet) was telling him to stop, that something about all of this wasn't right. At first, he couldn't put his finger on what exactly that was, but with each brush of their lips and swipe of their tongues, Steve began to understand what the problem was.

Bucky's lips taste strongly of rum and salt, and his skin carries the heavy scent of bleach that isn't coming from his clothes. Bucky's movements are frantic; fingers clawing at Steve's bare shoulders and hips rutting for friction in a way that Steve hasn't ever seen before. His breath is shallow and hiccuped, and it's only when Steve catches onto that observation that he feels the wetness on his cheeks. They're tears. But they're not Steve's tears.

They're Bucky's.

Steve all but freezes right there on the spot, still holding onto Bucky, still halfway to ravaging him against the wall like a whore in a brothel, and he suddenly can't make himself return the kisses that Bucky's still pressing against his parted mouth. It feels wrong, even though having Bucky in his arms has never felt so  _ right. _

“Steve–” Bucky whines, lips moving against Steve's and hands sliding up his neck to cup his heated cheeks and keep the other close. “Steve, please don't–Stevie, baby, please–M’sorry, Stevie. So fucking sorry. Just don't stop. Please! I'll do anything, just please don't leave me like this!”

He sounds broken, distressed, like he can't fathom the thought of Steve pulling away from him right now. It's not something that Steve's ever heard from Bucky, but he recognizes the emotion behind it all too well. It's that starved-for-comfort, engulfed by howling loneliness type of thing that Steve remembers feeling after losing Peggy. He can hear the pain in Bucky's voice, taste it in his kiss. He feels it reaching out to dig its icy claws into his own heart that's breaking from seeing Bucky this way. Something terrible happened, and Steve wants to do anything he can to help him get past it. Whatever it is. But blindly jumping into sex just because it feels good isn't going to help Bucky at all. He's also drunk, so he's very obviously not thinking clearly at the moment. This is wrong. Bucky can't properly consent to this and Steve isn't about to take advantage of that just because he's hurting as well.

He pulls back to get a better look at Bucky's face, and just like Steve's expecting, Bucky is sobbing, barely holding himself together as he tries to lean in for another kiss Steve won't let him have.

Steve swallows back his rising need to tear Bucky apart, sets his feet back down on the floor, and Bucky just loses what little composure he had left entirely.

_ "No no no no no, _ Stevie,  _ please _ don't–I c-can't– _ Steve," _ He sinks down to his knees before Steve, curling his fingers into the waistband of his pajama bottoms; trying to tug them down before Steve is able to catch him by the wrists and stop him.

"Bucky, wait–"

"I'm sorry, baby," he's saying, mashing his words together as he rushes to get them out; all the while, still trying like hell to get his hands and mouth on Steve's cock like he'll die if he doesn't taste him. Even going so far as to lean forward and messily mouth at the plaid cloth covering Steve's crotch. "I said I was sorry. I'll make it up to you–m-make you feel so good. Don't you wanna feel good, Stevie?"

"Bucky, st–wait–just hang on a sec–"

"Wanna feel good too," he sighs, high and needy. The sound goes straight to Steve's traitorous dick, and Bucky smiles blissfully as he feels the little twitch against his lips. "This what you want? Me on my knees with your cock in my mouth?–I can do that. I can do anything you want–be anything you want. I can be a...a  _ whore _ for you, Stevie.  _ Your whore. _ Just lemme show you how good I can be–lemme feel good too. Jus' wanna feel good..."

Steve's breath rushes from his lungs, body fighting with his mind on whether he should lean into or away from Bucky's wet mouth sucking at the front of his pants.

Bucky is rambling, spewing forth filthy words and pleas that do nothing to quell the fire in Steve's gut, and the flames will burn him down to ash before he even has time to think straight.

Steve's eyes close for a second, allowing his body to give in while his defenses are down. But then Bucky's words turn wet and thick, and his voice breaks as the desperation mounts. Steve's eyes snap back open, flitting downward to remind him that Bucky is a fucking mess; sobbing and hiccuping as he presses his face into Steve's thigh.

There's a brief moment of clarity again, and Steve's resolve hardens like clay in the sun. This can't happen. He won't let it happen. No matter how much Bucky begs and pleads, he won't let himself take advantage of Bucky's situation. That's not the kind of person he is, and he'd rather chew off his own arm than reduce Bucky to a whore to slake his own lust. Bucky is worth more than that. So much more.

Bucky gives a particularly harsh tug, ripping the seams in Steve's waistband and forcing his brain to come back online a bit sooner than he'd anticipated. He needs to put a stop to this now.

_ "Please!" _ Bucky wails, turning glassy eyes on Steve in the hopes that he'll get his way and Steve will give in. But his tear tracks and clumpy eyelashes have the opposite effect, and Steve's expression twists into utter horror. "Let me–I can–don't you want me, Stevie?"

"No!" Steve barks a bit too sharply, but it gives him the intended result he was after. Bucky goes stock still, eyes wide and hands trembling where they're loosely gripping Steve's pants. Steve can see the moment when Bucky's hope dies, and it's like a knife to the chest, but he can't allow this to continue. They should be gently talking things over, not roughly fucking each other senseless out of anger and hurt. Steve sees the need in Bucky's eyes, but it's not sex he needs. It's intimacy. Softness. Gentleness.  _ Affection. _

Bucky's hands slide out of Steve's pants and he blinks, gliding his gaze down to the floor and away from Steve. The sting of rejection in his heart is worse than taking a slug to the chest, and he feels like curling in on himself and letting the floor swallow him whole, but he doesn't think that Steve will let him stay long enough to allow that to happen.

It's clear that he's not wanted here any longer. He should leave, and quickly, if Steve's stony expression is anything to go by.

"I'm sorry," Bucky whispers, and Steve has to strain just to hear him over his pounding heart. "I don't...I shouldn't've come here."

"No, stop, just–" Steve sighs, frustrated with himself and this whole shitty situation. "I don't want you to leave, Bucky. Just...come sit with me, yeah? That's all I want. You don't have to do all of this to get my attention. You have it, sweetheart."

Bucky doesn't move. Doesn't look up. He just shakes his head sullenly, like that wasn't what he wanted to hear.

Steve kneels down in front of him, gently cupping Bucky's face in his big palms. Bucky still won't meet his eyes, but Steve sees the shame coloring his cheeks all the same and doesn't hesitate to kiss the tip of Bucky's nose. That at least earns him a sideways glance, and Steve is just grateful that Bucky's giving him that much after he'd screamed at him in the doorway. Steve isn't the only one hurting here, and he has to remember that. Bucky's feelings matter too, not just his own.

"Would you like some tea? Some of that herbal stuff helps on nights where I can't sleep. I think it'll help."

Bucky doesn't think that Steve is referring to general sleeplessness here. It's just a gesture, saying that he can see what Bucky's trying so desperately to hide and wants to help the only way he knows how.

He doesn't deserve it.

But he's just selfish and drunk enough to take it, and he knows that he'll hate himself come the morning when rational thought takes over.

Bucky nods and Steve smiles softly. He helps Bucky stand as he rises to his feet, guiding him toward the couch in the living room with a hand on the small of Bucky's back.

He tells Bucky to sit and wait while he puts the kettle on and Bucky does, watching Steve's back retreat into the kitchen, then hearing the front door close and audibly lock a second later. Bucky's phone is also vibrating in the pocket of his sweats, but for the life of him, he can't bring himself to care at all. It's most likely Nat, calling to see where the hell he ran off to again.

He probably should have left a note or something, but Bucky was far too busy drowning himself in booze to think about her and how she'd worry over him.

He doesn't deserve her.

He doesn't deserve anyone.

Especially Steve.

The living room is bigger than it looks from the entryway of the kitchen, all plush cream carpeting and deep crimson walls, a soft white sectional and a matching chair to fill the room. Photos litter the space around him, telling a story of two soulmates pulled apart by fate. The large flat screen tv is off, showing Bucky's blurry form reflecting in the distance, and even like this, he can see how much of a mess he is; slumped on the couch, wearing Steve's Army sweats and stinking of booze and bleach. No wonder Steve rejected him so adamantly.

Who wouldn't reject him if he looked like that?

Bucky perks up at the sound of the kettle whistling, and Steve returns a moment later holding two steaming mugs that smell of honey and lavender.

"Drink," Steve gently instructs. "You'll feel better, I promise."

Bucky does, but he can't really taste the tea at all. Lately, food has lost some of its luster, and everything tastes like ash on his tongue since Rumlow, Steve's herbal tea included. The heat feels nice in his belly, but that's about all he can sense at the moment.

He set the cup down on the coffee table after a few sips to pacify Steve, and Steve does the same, turning his body to press himself into the corner of the couch; hips angled and left leg bent at the knee. It's an open invitation to lay together. One Bucky can't resist, even though he knows he doesn't deserve the comfort of Steve's warm body pillowing his own.

"Come'ere. I wanna hold you for a while." Steve murmurs, and Bucky practically falls into his lap like a house of cards at the request.

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky's shoulders, pressing them closer together as Bucky hiccups and snuffles; rubbing his wet cheek against the firm muscle of Steve's pectoral, closing his eyes a moment later.

Silence envelops them both, even though there are words that desperately need to be said. After a while, Bucky speaks, and his voice is rough like he'd been gargling glass.

Steve already knows what's coming, but he's not ready to hear it yet.

"I need to tell you something, Steve."

"I know. We'll talk in the morning, when you're sober and calm and have had time to think." Steve says, fingers finding their way into Bucky's hair, softly carding through the tangled strands. Steve can still smell a hint of citrus there, and it makes him want to bury his nose into Bucky's silky hair. So he does, breathing deeply and humming with content once he finds that intoxicating scent.

"But Steve, you don't understand! I'm not–"

"Hush," Steve soothes, pressing his palm flat against Bucky's skull and pushing his head back down from where it'd popped up indignantly; pillowing his cheek once more. "Just lay with me, okay. I know there's a lot we have to discuss, and we will, but right now isn't the time to do so. Emotions are high, inhibitions are low. That makes people do and say things they don't mean. We'll talk once you're sober, I promise. But for now, you need to rest."

Bucky huffs but doesn't argue. Steve is right, like always. Even though he needs to get this off of his chest, he can wait until Steve's ready to hear it in a few hours. Who knows, he might even be a little more receptive to it if they're both calm and rested.

It's wishful thinking, he knows. But he can't help but hope that things might actually go his way for once.

What a fool he is.

"I do have one question though," Steve says after a brief pause.

Bucky hums, eyes closed.

"Is Bucky your real name, or just a nickname you prefer?"

Bucky snorts. "Nickname."

Steve hums in assent. "I figured it was."

There's another short pause, and Steve thinks that Bucky might be falling asleep by how deep and even his breathing is starting to get. The fingers in his hair aren't helping with that, but Steve isn't about to stop anytime soon. He can't even be angry with Bucky anymore. Not after seeing the things he saw here tonight.

"My real name is James," Bucky says. "James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky was just a childhood nickname my folks called me. Kinda grew on me over the years, so I stuck with it."

"James." He smiles around the name. "I like it."

Steve presses a kiss to Bucky's hair and closes his eyes as well. There'd be answers in the morning, and they could decide what's best for both of them once the truth is out in the open, but if tomorrow comes and Bucky leaves again, Steve will be glad they'd spent one last night together before the bubble inevitably bursts.

The conversation dies off quickly and both boys fall into a light sleep, clinging to each other like octopi.

The quiet of Steve's home is broken at around three in the morning, only two hours after Bucky showed up on Steve's doorstep.

There was a loud crash of breaking glass and the hard clicking of a gun a moment later. Bucky's eyes snap open, peering through the darkness to find the barrel of a Glock 17 pointing directly at his forehead. He could hear Steve's heart pounding wildly against his ear, and Bucky knew that Steve was awake as well; still leaning against the couch and holding onto Bucky like that would actually save them from what's about to happen.

It wouldn't.

He knew it wouldn't.

"I warned you," A harsh voice is saying in the darkness, and Bucky's blood freezes into sludge in his veins. That fucker followed him here?!

"You didn't listen, and now you both have to pay the price. I told you once already, Snowflake. If I can't have you, no one can."


	23. Chapter 23

Consciousness brings with it regret.

Not just for what he sees when his eyes slowly crack open, the fog of sleep cleared away with the sound of a voice and the metallic clicking of a gun. But contrition for what could have been and what he should have done differently. 

He should have told Steve the truth right from the start. Should have said something to Natasha after Brock became possessive and cruel. Should have said no to Sam when he'd proposed this ridiculous farce of a plan. If Bucky did any of those things, then maybe he could have spared Steve the sight of a vicious predator standing in his living room, pressing a 9mm firmly against the forehead of the man who lied and connived his way into his heart.

In some sick parallel of a past tragedy, Steve will have to witness (again) as a person he cares for is mercilessly ripped from his arms, just to become another bloodstain on the pale carpet of the living room floor.

In that moment, when Bucky's entire existence is narrowed down to a single point in time, he's acutely aware of two disturbing statements that turn his blood to ice.

One: That Brock Rumlow is a possessive, jealous, murderous sociopath, and Bucky was a fool to underestimate just how far he'd go to keep Bucky for himself.

And Two: That he's most likely going to die here tonight, and Steve is going to have to watch it as it happens.

It's a strange feeling, knowing that his time here on Earth is limited. Yes, Bucky is aware that no one lives forever and that we're all destined to return to the dust from whence we came, but it's another thing entirely to hear the ticking of the clock next to his ear, winding down before his eyes in a manner both too slow and far too fast for his mind to comprehend. It's terrifying to know that the things he'll say and do will play a part in how long the sand in the hourglass will take to empty, that a handful of words or actions could precede a quick or a violent, drawn-out death.

His life is over. Of that, Bucky has no doubts. In the back of his mind, he knows that Rumlow has reached the point of no return and that he'd rather see Bucky dead on the floor than in the arms of another man.

It doesn't matter what he does to try and placate Brock. The evidence of Bucky's betrayal is right there in front of him, in the form of an arm tightening protectively around Bucky's waist, drawing him up into Steve's warmth as if that simple act would stave off the inevitable.

He can hear Steve's heartbeat against his ear, rapid with stress and rushing adrenaline in his veins. His breath is shallow, muscles tense and battle-ready should the moment for action arise. 

It's then, when Bucky hears the slow intake of breath, of teeth grinding together in an almost territorial act of aggression, that he became aware of yet another disturbing truth: That Steve Rogers would rather die than see Bucky hurt.

Panic swells in his chest, tight and suffocating like a gust of hot air to his face. Steve is readying himself, silently calculating and assessing each variable like the soldier he used to be, running through a thousand different scenarios in his head until he lands on one that should guarantee Bucky's survival.

The plan is simple. Steve needs to take the attention off of Bucky and put it solely on himself. 

But as simple as this plan is, Steve still doesn't know the one thing that could make a difference in how this plays out.

Who is this man, and what does he want?

So Steve, very calmly and clearly, asks him.

"This is 1408 Elmhurst Drive," Steve says, jaw set and blue eyes blazing with barely contained fury. "You are trespassing on private property. There are no illicit drugs or high-value items on the premises." Steve takes a fortifying breath, faintly disturbed by the fact that this stranger hasn't made any demands–apart from that odd comment he made to Bucky–or tried to steal anything yet. So far as Steve can tell, he broke in through the kitchen window with the express purpose of hunting down Bucky. Even as Steve speaks, the man's dark eyes are boring into Bucky's frightened blues, wild and unhinged, like a starving dog staring down a rabbit. It's the most bizarre and, frankly, terrifying thing Steve has ever seen. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

Rumlow's attention quickly latches onto Steve, meeting his gaze head-on for a moment. Steve can see the veins in his neck bulging, thrumming with the cadence of his quick, steady pulse. Rumlow's hands are shaking a bit, pupils blown wide like he's high on something.

Steve tightens his grip around Bucky's middle in response, drawing him impossibly close as he shifts minutely, pushing Bucky behind him as subtly as he can.

Rumlow's mouth curls up in a snarl, thumb laying heavily on the hammer of his drawn 9mm.

"Why am I here?" He echoes Steve's question, brows raised, forcing out a humorless chuckle as he presses the muzzle a bit more firmly to the center of Bucky's forehead. "I'm here because you stole something of mine, and I'm going to take it back."

"Brock, please don't–" Bucky tries, but the second the words are out of his mouth, Rumlow whips the gun around and backhands him hard with the grip. Steve's whole body tenses at the sound of metal on bone, a vicious ' _crack'_ that resonates in his ears like a clap of thunder. Bucky's injured yelp is even worse, and Steve has to clamp down on his own aggression with all his might, lest it ends up costing him dearly.

"You shut the fuck up, you lying whore!" Brock spits, keeping the gun aimed at Bucky's head. "You deserve every bit of what's comin' to you–both of you, and you're sorely mistaken if you think you can talk your way outta this!"

"Hey!" Steve snaps, keeping still even as he commands Rumlow's attention back on him. "You said it yourself. _I_ took something from you, not him. You have a problem? You take it up with me, pal. You want blood? Take mine. But leave Bucky out of it."

Rumlow cocks his head, sizing Steve up and grinning once he finds something he likes. Something he can use against them.

"Oh, so he's _Bucky_ to you, huh?" Rumlow shifts his gaze back on Bucky, who's cradling his battered face in his hand. His tone becomes belittling, almost like he's speaking to an errant child, and Bucky just sinks into Steve's side like he's trying to melt into the back of the couch to escape it. None of this makes sense to Steve, but the picture it poses is that of a jilted lover to an unfaithful partner, and that revelation settles like a lead weight in Steve's gut. "Seems the rules go right out the fuckin' window once you find some rich dick to suck, ey Snowflake? You let him get close, personal, like he's somethin' special. Like your obligations to me don't fucking matter anymore once he's in the fucking picture!"

Bucky doesn't say a word, but his eyes are wide and wet, lips quivering like he wants to scream or cry, maybe both if his expression is anything to go by. Steve's head is spinning like a top, trying to connect the dots and piece together the bits of information he has already. But the sad truth of it is that he doesn't know much about Bucky. He very well could have a lover on the side for all he knows, and Bucky's secrecy on his personal life is only cementing that theory into fact the more Rumlow talks.

Steve really doesn't know Bucky at all, does he?

"Loyalty means nothing to you, huh!? All those nights you crawled into my bed, tellin' me secrets and spinning lies like we'd be together forever! You tell him that shit too?! Spread your legs like a whore and whisper sweet words that don't mean shit!"

There's no remorse in Rumlow's eyes as he takes in the slight trickle of blood rolling down Bucky's split cheek; a deep red bruise blooming just under his left eye. In fact, it only seems to amp him up, like that initial blow to Bucky's head was a rush for him, a release he can't find anywhere else.

People often throw around words like _psychopath_ or _sociopath_ in reference to another person disturbing in nature, but they don't quite understand just how _soul jarring_ it can be to come face to face with one. To be at their mercy, under their complete control with no say in if, when, or how they'll leave this world behind.

Bucky has tasted the bitter tinge of mortal peril on his tongue once before with Rumlow, but there's a new element of fear this time around; sour and acidic, making his gut squirm as bile inches up his throat. 

It's not just himself that's in danger this time, and Bucky feels that raw panic begin to settle deep within his chest; crushing his ribs with brick-like pressure.

It's all his fault.

Rumlow wouldn't be here if Bucky hadn't come tonight, and Steve would be safe in his bed, none the wiser to the depth of shit Bucky's been wading in for weeks. Years, even.

He knows now, though. Before long, Steve will know every dirty secret Bucky's been trying to hide, and he'll be exposed and judged for his wickedness without an ounce of pity from Steve, just like he'd always feared would happen.

Steve's face crumples into bitter resignation, but he never relaxes his hold on Bucky. Not even for a second. As much as his heart aches with confusion and betrayal, he's not about to let Rumlow take advantage of his pain in order to hurt Bucky.

Whatever is going on, whatever lies Bucky did or did not tell is irrelevant right now. The only thing that matters at this moment is Bucky's safety. Nothing more. Not even his own.

"Look, Brock is it?" Steve calmly placates, swallowing down the wave of unwanted emotions that are threatening to drown him. He needs to remain calm and keep Rumlow's focus on him. They can figure everything else out once the threat is neutralized. "I don't know what's going on between you and Bucky, but you have no right to come here and–"

"No right?" Brock barks, aiming the gun at Steve's forehead. Bucky's heart drops like a stone. "I have every right to put a fucking bullet in both of your heads!"

"No. You don't." Steve says firmly, and Bucky's chest is so tight with anxiety he can't breathe. Steve is goading Brock into making a move now that he's set his sights on Steve, looking for blood. "If Bucky doesn't want to see you anymore because of me, then that's my fault, not his. I'm right here, Brock. You wanna prove you're superior to me? Put the gun down and we can settle this like men. Bucky's done nothing wrong. Leave him out of this."

Brock snorts dismissively. "You really haven't got a clue, do you, Rogers?" The color drains from Steve's face at the sound of his name in Brock's mouth, quickly coming to terms with the fact that Rumlow has been keeping tabs on him as well as with Bucky. Rumlow belts out a wicked laugh that's more of a predatory growl than anything human, taking a bold step forward to box Steve in against the couch, the muzzle of the gun now resting on Steve's cheek. "Yeah, I know who you fucking are, _Captain._ Ex-army officer now working for that _cunt_ Tony Stark, not so much as a parking ticket on your pristine record. So, color me surprised when I found out you were shacking up with a cock sucker for hire. Wonder what that wife of yours would think if she found out– _"_ Brock gasps with feigned sympathy. _"Oh,_ whoops, that must be a sore spot, huh? Quite the weakness to exploit, wouldn't you agree, Snowflake? A rich shut-in with a dead wife, desperate for companionship. Lonely. Vulnerable. Like taking candy from a baby."

The air rushes from Steve's lungs with a wounded sound, the muscles in his jaw jumping as the tension mounts. There's a lot for Steve to deconstruct in that particular line of dialog; his past, his wife, the backhanded comments about Bucky that make his skin crawl. But as Steve casts a desperate glance toward Bucky, hoping to hear his pleas of innocence, he instead finds that Bucky is quietly crying, and most importantly, he's not saying a word to dispel any part of Brock's argument.

Bucky is looking anywhere but at Steve, his long lashes matted with sorrow and guilt as if those disgusting accusations actually hit home for him. But that can't be right. Bucky would never do something like that, would he? 

_Would he?_

"Steve, please." Bucky sobs, shrinking in on himself. "It's not–I-I'm not–" _what you think I am._

Bucky chokes on his own words, the weight of them on his tongue far too heavy for him to bear. He can't bring himself to say what he needs to say, to confess that he was paid to get close to Steve. That he was contracted by Sam to lie to his face in order to sleep with him. That he took two thousand dollars of Sam's money, then demanded another two on top of that. It sounds gross even to his own ears, so he doubts that it would sound any better to Steve's.

Steve sucks in a breath, collecting himself as calmly as he could despite the circumstances. He has to remind himself that this isn't about what Bucky did or did not do. Brock is trying to divide them because he wants Bucky for himself, and he'll say anything to make Steve abandon him, to hurt Bucky the way Rumlow thinks he's been hurt.

Steve isn't about to fall for it. 

He can't. 

Not now.

"Don't you _ever_ mention my wife again. Do you understand me?" Steve growls lowly, sitting forward as much as he can with a gun in his face. The sound of Steve's unforgiving voice sets Bucky's teeth on edge, but Brock's answering grin turns his bowels to ice. "You don't scare me, Brock. I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. Bucky is a good man. I trust him."

"That so?" Brock sneers, darting his hand out in a flash, latching onto Bucky's hair and yanking him bodily from the couch to rest on his knees before Brock. Steve makes a move to retaliate, fist cocked and jaw set despite the very real danger of getting shot in the face. But his muscles freeze completely, perched at the end of the couch when Rumlow shifts his aim back toward Bucky.

"Ah, ah, ah, Rogers. _Wrong."_ Brock chides condescendingly, dragging Bucky back by his hair to keep him just out of Steve's reach. "You trust him, huh? You think I'm lying?! I've got proof that he's been lying to us both. On video. Would you like to see just how loyal this _slut_ really is? He was mine before he was yours. You remember that, Rogers. You remember how sweetly he calls out my name, how it sounds just like the way he's sighed yours and countless others before you. You were never the only one for him, and you never will be. You're a paycheck. A means to an end. And I'm about to end you both! "

Bucky chokes, twisting in Brock's grip as his stomach plummets to the floor. Brock has a recording of Bucky, and his heart clenches painfully once he realizes what Steve is about to witness.

He hears it before he sees Rumlow move at all; letting him go but keeping him frozen in place with the promise of a bullet to his head, and Steve's eyes go wide as the video begins to play. 

His worst fear is confirmed once he registers his own voice, mewling pathetically as Brock drives into his slack body again and again. There's no doubt that Steve recognizes what he's seeing. The video, crudely shot on a phone from Brock's point of view, shows a very nude Bucky pressed down on his belly against a mattress, bare ass up in the air as Rumlow fucks him dirty, growling out a plethora of filth that Bucky doesn't seem to mind one bit. In fact, he appears to fucking love it. Begs for it. Begs for Brock to give him more.

It's an earlier session, one of the first few that Brock and Bucky had. But Steve doesn't know that. All he sees is Bucky willingly submitting himself before Rumlow, moaning and pleading for more like his life depends on it.

Steve looks sick; skin pale and eyes glossy. His hand moves to cover his mouth, perhaps out of shock or fear that he might suddenly throw up. Bucky isn't quite sure, but he can feel the weight of Steve's shame in the words he's not saying. 

"Steve!" Bucky whimpers, just as the Bucky in the video whimpers Brock's, and Steve has to shut his eyes to block out the image that's trying to burn itself into his memory.

The moment when Steve refuses to meet Bucky's eyes is the moment that all hope abandons him, and he slumps forward, giving in to whatever is going to happen to him. 

He's already lost Steve, but perhaps he can still save him. Rumlow still poses a threat, whether he's won in this endeavor or not, and Bucky needs to put a stop to this before Steve ends up getting hurt. It doesn't matter that they haven't known each other long. That they've only been intimate once. What matters is that Steve is a genuinely good person, and that Bucky cares immensely for him. Steve doesn't deserve any of this, but Bucky does.

He'd never forgive himself if Steve paid the price for his sins.

"Steve, " Bucky pleads, and Steve's eyes slowly open at the sound of his voice. "Run." 

It happens in an instant. Bucky's left arm raises up, bionic fist curled around the barrel of the gun. Brock startles as Bucky pulls back, fighting with all his might to try and rid Rumlow of his weapon. Brock goes down to the floor as Bucky surges forward, straddling Brock's waist to wrestle for the gun.

Rumlow's phone goes flying across the room, silencing the video completely, but Steve can still hear Bucky's cries echoing in the back of his head. _It hurts_. It hurts like hell. But Steve can't fall apart right now, not when Bucky is still in danger.

Steve blinks to clear his blurry vision, time moving as slow as molasses. Steve stands, teeth grit with rage, ready to fight.

But the Earth abruptly stops moving with the sound of a _'bang.'_

The gun just went off, and Bucky stiffens with a shrill gasp from where it's perched atop Rumlow. For a moment, Steve thinks he's okay, that he's just in shock, but then his body slumps forward, and Bucky goes still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry if this was shit. 😕


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The moment everyone's been dreading. 
> 
> Please don't be too upset with me😬

Steve is barely breathing. The space between one breath and the next grows longer as time stretches on, molasses-slow and bitter like tar, filling up his lungs with each forced inhale he takes. Faintly, he thinks he can actually feel the burbling in his chest as it hardens to stone, slowly suffocating him as the sheer shock of it all crushes him from within.

The echo of a gunshot still rings deafeningly in his ears, and even though they're only a few inches apart, Steve can't tell if Bucky is making any sound at all, but he recognizes, belatedly, that Bucky's body is shaking; his back heaving like he can't pull in air despite how hard he's trying, and Steve is all but worthlessly welded to the spot where he's slumped beside the couch.

There's blood on the carpet, he notes, viscously pooling underneath Rumlow's motionless form, and in an instant, Steve is abruptly whisked away to a different point in time, back when he was staring down at a similar damp patch of deep crimson soiling the pristine white of his living room floor.

Of course the crime scene techs didn't bother to clean the place up after they'd worked the scene. Everything was left the way it was found, more or less, which unfortunately, included the blood spatter on the wall and the spot where Peggy's body hit the floor after she'd been shot.

At first, he thought, ' _Pegs must have spilled her glass of Merlot, that'll be a bitch of a stain to get out. Who's idea was it to put white carpeting down in the highest traffic area of the house, again? Oh, right. Mine.'_ , and it's foolish, he knows. But the mind conjures up all sorts of falsehoods when it's faced with life-altering changes such as the sudden death of a loved one. Especially if they'd met a particularly violent end.

All at once, Steve remembers the flashes of red and blue light dancing across his face, the sharp press of his car keys digging into the palm of his clenched right hand. Muted voices, tinny and laced with static as they talk back and forth through the radio transceiver. 

For a moment, it almost feels like it's happening to someone else; watching little clips of blurry images and deafened sounds like corrupted film from a reel. But Steve knows that these things were all too real, and that just three short years ago, he was living in the thick of it. Rushing up the driveway to his home, eyes wide with bone-chilling panic and heart firmly lodged in his constricted throat.  

 _"Do we have a 20 on the shooter?"_ The disembodied voice of a man inquires, and Steve feels himself wither a little more at the notion of Peggy facing down a loaded gun alone. " _Negative. Patrol is out circling the block."_ The other–a beautiful redhead with green eyes that Steve has only met once before- answers.

Steve blinks, inhales and exhales, just like Sam instructed him to do when he bodily led him outside to sit on the curb; away from the scene while the coroner worked on the body.

He doesn't remember much of what Sam had said on the phone, just that his neighbor–Angie– was the one who'd called it in after she'd heard a gunshot and a shrill scream. 

Peggy had called an hour before Steve decided to finally step away from work to check his messages; finding a voicemail from her waiting in his inbox along with twelve missed calls from Sam and several urgent texts practically begging Steve to answer his fucking phone.

All he knew at the time was that _something_ had happened and that Peggy might have been hurt. Sam wouldn't tell him much else over the phone, but Steve recalls nearly wrapping his car around a poll trying to get to the house at break-neck speed.

He never imagined he'd pull up to find seven squad cars and an ambulance waiting for him, or the ice that filled his veins as he pushed past the throng of officers, howling out Peggy's name and wondering why the fuck she wasn't in the back of the ambulance. Or why she was just...lying there on the living room floor like that. Covered in blood and earth-shatteringly still, staring blankly at the ceiling with those dull brown eyes of hers.

They left her crumpled on the carpet like a discarded doll, like how Bucky is lying now. A puppet with his strings cut. Facedown, arms curled protectively around his torso, and he's _alive_ , but he's also covered in blood that may or may not be his and Steve is just...frozen, unable to think or move or speak when all he wants to do is reach out and grab him; cradle Bucky close and soothe his trembling form in the way he never could when it was Peggy lying there, almost in that exact same spot, now that he thinks about it.

Like a clap of thunder, the sound in the room rushes back in to fill the static in Steve's head, and abruptly, Steve realizes that Bucky is _wailing–_ not crying– _wailing,_ like he's being torn apart from the inside out, and Steve can't stand the sound of it. The way it pierces through the fog of shock like a beacon of light, spilling out deep red hues of anguish on the already soiled ground he's lying upon.

Steve wants to cover his ears, block out the noise completely and sink back down into that numbness that chokes off reality like thick smoke. But Bucky's shrill cries are a klaxon in the dark, blaring incessantly and urging him to move. To do something. _Anything._ Whatever he has to just to make it _stop._

So Steve moves, slowly shifting his weight onto his knees and shuffling forward toward Bucky, who takes one look at Steve and proceeds to cave in on himself even further, if that's even possible. 

He's whimpering like a wounded dog, broken beyond repair, begging for mercy. Steve doesn't understand why he's begging for forgiveness like this, reaching out to clutch the thigh of Steve's sweatpants with shaking, blood-smeared hands; eyes glassy and utterly pleading for something Steve doesn't yet comprehend.

"Pl–plea-se," He hears Bucky wheeze, though any other words he might have been able to force out through his clenched teeth were far too distorted by his cries to be intelligible. 

What is he apologizing for, exactly?

Rumlow? 

The break-in? 

All of the lies and secrecy surrounding their–whatever it is that they have? _Had._ Maybe that's a better tense of the word, since Rumlow succeeded in firmly uprooting whatever it was that was growing between them. 

There's just no coming back from something like this, is there? No chance to mend those wounds inflicted with such malice.

What hope do they have now when all trust between them was forfeited by acts of deception? 

None. 

At least none that Steve can see.

Yet, even knowing what he does, Steve still chooses to hold Bucky close, still does his best to quiet his wretched sobbing with kisses to his wet cheeks and creased forehead, still whispers hoarsely that everything is going to be okay, because he has to.

Regardless of how he's feeling betrayed and used, scraped raw by lies and left to bleed, Steve cannot stand the sight of Bucky in such pain, knowing that he has the power within him to stop it.

Bucky may have lied, but Steve still cares. A little too much, maybe, Sam might say, but that's how his mother raised him, and that's how he'll stay.

A hopeless fool, too blinded by puppy love to see what's actually in front of him.

He doesn't know who Bucky really is, or what he actually was to Rumlow, who was pretty adamant that Bucky literally belonged to _him_ and that _Steve_ was the one stealing him away. _Steve_ was the problem. _Steve_ was the homewrecker. _Steve_ was sleeping with another man's partner. 

There's no denying what he saw on Rumlow's phone. They were, at the very least, involved on a strictly sexual level, and the thing that kills him the most is that Bucky didn't even try to deny it. He just sat there, staring at Steve with those pleading eyes while the evidence of his betrayal was shown to Steve.

He knew the jig was up. There wasn't a whole lot he could say that would dispute visual proof of him fucking another man, and by the look and sound of it, remorselessly enjoying every second of it.

 _God,_ those _sounds._ The way Bucky said Rumlow's name. Moaned it. _Gasped_ it like a desperate prayer. All of that raw passion, igniting like a lit match thrown in a barrel of gunpowder…

The very same passion Steve felt consume him the moment Bucky's lips touched his for the first time. Like a fool, Steve honestly believed that it was all for him, that he was something special. But it seems that Bucky is just like that with everyone he's with, and now Steve doesn't think that he was ever the only one in Bucky's life.

 _Fuck._ He's so stupid!

And what's worse is that he was so close to falling in love with Bucky, a man he doesn't know, and probably never will know. At least in any way that counts.

Steve is pretty sure that these revelations are all playing out on his face, based upon the look Bucky's giving him right now.

It's a cross between desperation and resignation, like he knows what's about to happen but still wants to somehow fight it, even if he doesn't believe he deserves Steve's clemency. 

Bucky sucks in a shaky breath, frantically rubbing at his wet cheeks with the heel of his free hand, and once again, he's pleading. Begging. Saying " you don't understand," like it would actually mean something to him.

What is it that he doesn't understand?

It's pretty cut and dry to Steve, even if his heart and his mind are still warring over which action he should take after the dust settles. Like it or not, they still have a huge mess on their hands, one that takes the shape of a presumably dead Brock Rumlow lying on his living room floor.

Steve can see now that it was Rumlow that took the bullet to the chest, not Bucky–who came out of that scuffle with little more than a split lip and a couple of bruises and scrapes–and Steve was witness to all of it, which may not mean shit if the police are looking to fry someone over Brock's death. 

He has no idea how powerful a man Rumlow was, or what ties he had to the community or clout he had with those important fucks in the Mayor's Office. 

They could both be potentially staring down the barrel of a loaded gun over this, and that allegation is only adding to the anxiety Steve's currently drowning himself in.

Without a word, Steve reaches over and presses his index and pointer fingers to Rumlow’s carotid artery, feeling for a pulse and sighing dejectedly when he finds none. Brock is definitely dead, and Steve's not sure how he feels about that.

How should he feel?

Elated?–Relieved? 

Who really knows. All he can say for sure is that he's not going to shed any tears over Brock Rumlow. As unexpected as his death is, Rumlow was still a piece of shit that broke into his house just to hurt Bucky, maybe even kill him, and if Steve is really being honest with himself, he was probably going to end up with Rumlow’s blood on his hands anyway.

He was a bully, through and through, and Steve can't stomach that kind of shit in any form it takes, mostly due to that time his ma got her face busted up by some guy she was thinking about dating when Steve was younger. 

Being only six at the time, Steve couldn't do much of anything, but he remembers wiping the blood from her mouth after that fucker left their apartment, asking her why she didn't just stay down after the first hit.

_"Because, Steven–and you remember this–you always get back up. No matter what, you have to stand up for what's right, even if it hurts. You always get back up."_

Steve holds those words close to his heart, and so, there was no question about it at all. Steve would have risked his life to save Bucky. Had it gone that way, he would have taken a bullet for him, and Steve isn't sure if that makes this whole situation worse or better.

Probably worse. Who's he kidding?

"It's okay, Bucky. Just breath–we both just gotta breath." Steve says in an attempt to calm Bucky's hysterical rambling, not truly believing it, but what else can he really say at this point?

Bucky doesn't appear to believe him, either. 

"No, Steve, just listen to me!" He bellows frantically. "That video–it's not...we weren't. You have to believe me! I know I didn't tell you about him, and I know how bad this looks, but–"

"Steve?!" Sam's voice cuts through the choppy explanation Bucky's trying to quickly force out, and Steve stiffens as his front door is kicked in by Sam's size 11 boot. Once the door is busted off its hinges, the house alarm finally begins to blare.

Wait–Sam? How did he–? Oh, right. Rumlow must have tripped the perimeter alarm when he busted out the window, and that only sends out a silent S.O.S to the police department to tell them something is wrong. The piercing siren that's threatening to burst his eardrums is only triggered if someone tries to force open the front or back door, which, looking back on it, is kind of a major design flaw.

Sometimes Steve doesn't quite understand Tony's tech, but he swore up and down that it was innovative and he'd be a fool to go with something mundane and not at all Stark affiliated like ADT. 

Steve's not so sure anymore. 

"Steve, you there?!" Sam calls out, followed by another voice that doesn't belong to Sam at all, shouting, "James?" 

Steve doesn't miss the way Bucky tenses at that voice, both familiar to Steve and foreign. He remembers its owner clearly enough: red hair, green eyes, killer smile. 

Sam's partner, Natasha...who also knows Bucky enough to a.) Know that he'd be here somehow, and b.) Call him by a name he rarely uses. 

"Nat?" Bucky rasps, pitch rising a few octaves. He turns his head to see both her and Sam coming around the corner from the kitchen with their guns drawn and flashlights out; nearly blinding them both once the beams of white light land on their faces. The radios attached to the holsters around their shoulders are buzzing with static-laced voices, chirping each time someone talks. Nat takes one look at the scene before her, sharp green eyes landing first on Rumlow, then Steve–who's cradling a bloodied and trembling Bucky in his arms, and it's like everything just...clicks into place for her. Just like that.

"Dispatch, this is Romanoff, I'm at 1408 Elmhurst Drive. We have a 10-31E. Multiple victims, possibly one deceased. Send a bus promptly." She crisply says into her radio, gun still aimed at Rumlow, despite his clear lack of a pulse.

_"10-4. Standby for assistance. ETA seven minutes."_

"Copy."

Natasha gestures at Rumlow, returning her free hand to her 9mm handgun. "Is he alive?"

It takes a second for Steve to recognize that Natasha is speaking to him, not Bucky, and once he does, he slowly shakes his head like it's weighed down by concrete. "No."

"Is there anyone else here?"

"Just us." Steve answers, voice hollow. "There's no one else here."

Natasha nods once, pursing her lips before holstering her firearm and rushing up to Bucky's side. Sam follows suit right behind her, (first taking a moment to disable the alarm so they can hear each other) kneeling next to Steve and giving him a thorough once over to check for injuries.

"What the fuck happened, man?" Sam asks, but Steve isn't sure how he should answer that. He doesn't really know what happened, just that there was some conflict between Bucky and Rumlow and now Rumlow is dead and everything is broken and messy and complicated.

Natasha, on the other hand, appears to know exactly what happened, and why it occurred. She's watching Bucky like a hawk, switching gears from concerned to unsettled once she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bucky is in stable condition.

"Yasha," she murmurs, and the way she speaks is delicate, almost like she's addressing a small child. "Did he hurt you?"

Bucky doesn't say anything for a moment or two, and Steve feels Bucky burrow into his chest a little more as he averts eye contact, almost like doing so would hide him from Sam's heavily scrutinizing gaze, which wasn't lost on Steve at all. 

"It's my fault." He finally whimpers, voice small and wounded. "I didn't tell you. I-I should have, but–I was a coward, Nat. I couldn't tell you what he did, because I let it happen. It's my fault. It's all my fault!"

"Hush, now." Nat soothes, placing her hand on Bucky's cheek, brushing a few loose tears away with her thumb. "It's not your fault, Yasha. You hear me? Don't you dare blame yourself for this."

"But it is." Bucky insists. "He wouldn't have come here if I had just listened, stayed away like he told me to–like everyone told me to...but I _didn't_...and now look at what I've done...this is all because of me."

The longer Steve witnesses their interaction, the more he begins to realize that this entire situation is much deeper than it seems. Rumlow, Natasha, Bucky, maybe even Sam as well as himself are all connected to this one point of contact they all share, and it appears that that point is Bucky himself.

That, of course, raises even more questions that Steve doesn't have the answers to, and he has the sinking suspicion that Sam is somehow at the root of it all.

The way he's glaring at Bucky–like he's trying to set him on fire with just his eyes–is particularly damning, and Steve wouldn't be surprised to find out that Bucky and Sam actually know each other.

That, in and of itself, is enough to melt some of the ice that's surrounding Steve's lungs, and before he even has time to blink, his disposition is shifting again, going from paralyzing terror to icy numbness, then confusion to clarity. 

Clarity induces fury, and fury gives birth to a heartbreaking sorrow so deep it feels like a black hole is caving in the center of his chest.

Everyone knows something about this but him, and Steve is tired of playing the fool.

"Bucky," Steve murmurs icily, and Nat's perfectly manicured eyebrows raise at the sound of his tone. "What else have you been hiding from me? How deep does this really go?"

The implication is plain. He's really asking who else in this room knew about Rumlow and Bucky's affair, and still chose not to say anything about it. Who let things get this bad? Did Natasha know anything at all about his relationship with Steve, and if so, did Sam know that as well?

"Steve, you have to understand–"

"Who _are_ you?" He spits, firmly ignoring that Natasha ever opened her mouth to speak. His angry eyes are fixed on Bucky, and Bucky alone. "I mean, really. Who are you? Everything you've ever told me was a lie, wasn't it?"

"Steve," Sam cautions. "Is this really the best time for this?–"

"Wasn't it?!" Steve barks. Bucky flinches, wincing like Steve had just socked him in the mouth. But still, he denies it. 

"No."

Steve's voice softens as the sound of approaching sirens becomes louder. Their time together is short, and Steve has to get this off his chest before things become even more chaotic than they already are. 

"How can I believe that? How can I trust you after this?" 

Bucky whimpers, speaking his answer like it's a heavy secret. "You can't."

* * *

 

Things progress quickly from there. EMTs and a slew of officers come pouring through the opened door, and Steve and Bucky are separated as the paramedics load them into different ambulances. 

Natasha stays with Bucky, and Sam chooses to ride with Steve. Even though they're in stable condition, the paramedics thought it best to have them checked out by the docs at the hospital, just in case they missed something.

From there, it's nonstop examinations and interrogations, questions regarding Rumlow and the chain of events that led to his death.

Answers were given–semi-truthfully, and by the time everything was said and done, Steve and Bucky had given their statements to the officers and we're told not to leave the city in case they had to be called back in for questioning. But so far, it appeared to be a B&E gone horribly wrong. Self-defense measures were used and the assailant ended up dead.

Case closed.

Unless some new evidence came to light, there wasn't much that they could do, and Bucky was just thankful that it was finally fucking over. Even if he and Steve were now on the outs, stuck in the hospital overnight for observation, he's well aware that things could have ended very differently, and Bucky is grateful that no one else got hurt because of his lies.

Well, that fact could be heavily disputed. 

In the end, Steve still ended up caught in the crossfire, and during their stay here at Mercy Hospital, there wasn't much time for them to talk about any of it.

Bucky hasn't even seen Steve since they'd been separated at his home almost twenty-four hours ago, and even though he's dog tired and worn down to the bone, the fact that things between them remained unsettled makes it feels like a splinter is jammed deep into his mind.

He can't rest. Can't think about anything else but what Steve had said and how cold his voice was near the end. It bothers him beyond all comprehension, and he needs to set things straight so that Steve can begin to heal.

It doesn't matter that Bucky is hurting as well. In his mind, he made this bed of thorns for himself, and now he has to lay in it. 

But Steve doesn't have to.

Bucky can make things right, at least in terms of clarification. Lord knows Steve's probably driving himself insane trying to put the pieces of this fucked up puzzle together, even knowing that he doesn't have all the important parts to make the picture.

Fortunately, Bucky has the power to fix that.

He chances a glance up at the clock on the wall: _2:48 am_  

The hospital wing they're on is mostly quiet, say for the occasional beeps of equipment and the quiet chatter amongst the staff. They'd taken his clothes as evidence some time ago, leaving him in nothing but an ugly floral hospital gown and his underwear.

Natasha, true to her word, hasn't left his side since she first discovered him cradled in Steve's arms, slumped on the living room floor next to Rumlow’s carcass.

Currently, she's sound asleep, sitting up uncomfortably in a red leather chair next to Bucky's hospital bed. She's been out for at least half an hour, so Bucky seems pretty confident that he'd be able to silently slip out of his room undetected and make it back from Steve's room down the hall before she even stirs.

Though, It shouldn't really be a surprise that the second he makes a move, he hears her say, "And just where do you think you're going, James?" in that carefully calculated tone of hers.

Bucky sighs, turning his head to find that her eyes are still softly closed, breaths coming even and deep. Like he'd imagined the whole thing. 

How in the hell does she do that? Bucky will probably never know.

"I'm just going for a walk." He lies.

"At three in the morning?" She cracks her eyes open, lips curled in a slight frown. "You're supposed to be resting."

"Can't sleep. Too much on my mind."

That was at least a half-truth. 

Natasha's lips are drawn in a thin line, and she appears to be considering her next words very carefully. Bucky braces himself for what he knows is coming, but he still isn't quite prepared for when he actually hears it.

"James, perhaps it's best to just leave well enough alone. I don't think he wants to see you right now."

Bucky flinches, crossing his arms across his chest like that would guard him against further harm.

 "I can't do that, Nat. I can't just leave it go like this."

"Can't, or won't?"

It's really a bit of both. Bucky knows that the waters between him and Steve are uncertain, and that it's a risk to step out into the waves and wade into murky depths unprotected like this. Steve is hurt and confused. Angry. Scared. He'd just watched Bucky kill a man in his goddamn living room for Christ's sake, and Bucky's almost positive that witnessing something like that was triggering for him. 

He'd told Bucky about the intruder, how his wife and unborn child were killed almost in the same way that Rumlow was, and now he had to see it all over again with Bucky.

What is he thinking right now? How is he holding himself together when everything he knew was ripped apart by lies?

Bucky can't stand to think about it any longer.

He hangs his head low, unwilling to look Natasha in the eye as another wave of guilt swept over him. "He deserves to know. I can't imagine what's going through his head right now. What he thinks of me..."

"Is that what you're concerned about? Your image?" Nat digs, and the implication is so preposterous that Bucky's nose turns up in disgust.

"Of course not."

"Then what is it, James?" She queries. She already knows the answer to that question, because Bucky's answered it once before. "Why is this so important to you?"

He pauses, biting his lip like the words would spill out unbidden if he didn't. "I think you know why," Bucky replies after a time, and Natasha can see his shame and the guilt he's carrying on his shoulders. How it weighs him down like heavy stones. It's heartbreaking to witness, but she can tell that there's more to it than that. 

There's disgust reflecting in his eyes, but it's not directed at anyone other than himself. The self-hatred hangs on him like cloying perfume, and she's reminded of the night that Bucky laid his head on her thighs and just...wept. He was broken then, and Natasha chose to respect his privacy and didn't attempt to pry the information out of him like her instincts were begging her to do.

But this time is different. This time she needs to know, because Bucky is drowning in whatever it is and unless Natasha or someone else intervenes, it'll end up killing him.

So Nat rises from her chair, taking a measured step forward until they were only a few inches apart. Bucky glances up and catches her prying eyes, seeing right through him just like she always has. 

"I need to know something first." She says, placing her hand in his, clasping them together gently. "That night, when you laid on my lap and cried...was that because of him?"

 _Him_ is obviously in reference to Rumlow. Natasha knows that Steve would never hurt a hair on his pretty little head. 

Bucky nods a bit reluctantly. "Yes."

"And the cuts and bruises you were trying to hide? Were those from him as well?"

There's a pause. "Yes."

Natasha's face falls, and in the next moment she's drawing him in for a tight embrace, cradling the back of his head with her hand.

"Oh, Yasha. Why didn't you tell me?"

Bucky holds her in return, speaking into the crook of her neck. He's so close he can almost taste her perfume. "I couldn't, Nat." and that response has her pulling back sharply, giving Bucky an incredulous stare.

"Bullshit. You can tell me anything, and you know that."

"This was different–"

"How?"

"Because–Nat, I was afraid." Bucky bites out, pulling away from her. " Rumlow knew that you were using police resources to vet my clients. He was going to tell Fury. You would have lost your job, your pension, your fucking freedom if I hadn't played along! You were going to serve time for helping me!"

Natasha is very quiet for a moment, but when she finally speaks, her voice is carefully measured. Neutral. Objective. 

"I'm well aware of the consequences of my actions, James. I close to help you anyway. That's on me. Not you."

"Nat-" He sighs, but Natasha just holds up her hand to stop his argument before it even has a chance to start. He can tell that she's not particularly impressed by how well he's been able to hide things from her, especially something as big as this. Her eyes are hard; that carefully constructed mask that contains her emotions is starting to slip, and if Bucky hadn't been the one to kill Rumlow, he could guarantee that Natasha would serve up her own brand of ruthless justice on his behalf.

"How long was this going on?"

"Long enough," Bucky mutters, shrugging. "Does it matter? What's done is done."

Natasha shakes her head, reaching for his hand again. Bucky pulls away as their fingers brush. 

"It matters, Yasha. What he did–"

"I know…" Bucky says dejectedly. "You don't have to say it."

Natasha says it anyway. Whether Bucky chooses to believe it is entirely up to him.

"It wasn't your fault, Yasha. I'll tell you that as many times as you need to hear it. I love you, and I'll always support you. If this is something you need to do, then I won't stand in your way."

Bucky can feel his chest growing tighter with every word she says. His eyelashes are clumping together from the tears building up in the corner of his eyes. He's so close to breaking apart, coming unstitched in a mess of emotion he's fought so hard to bottle up and stuff down in a place so deep he'd hoped he'd never again find it. But here he is, bursting at the seams with regret and something so close to love that it scares him half to death.

He's already lost Steve. Knows it the way he knows his heart is breaking. But he can still clear his conscious and hopefully prove to Steve that he isn't what he seems to be. There's more to James Buchanan Barnes than meet the eye, and if Steve will give him that chance, he'd be delighted to show him everything he couldn't before.

All he needs is just one chance to make it right.

"I love you too, Natalia. Always will." He says with a small smile.

Well. Here's hoping.

* * *

 

Steve wasn't able to sleep either, it seemed.

Bucky was half expecting to find him in bed, sound asleep after all the shit that went down yesterday. And he was, in bed, at least. Staring blankly at the thin pink quilt that covered his legs. 

The second thing he notices, other than how gorgeous Steve looks in the low light that's spilling in from the hallway, is that he's completely alone, meaning that he'd booted Sam out for one reason or another.

He didn't look up when Bucky first entered his hospital room either, almost like he didn't see him come in at all. For a second, Bucky was apprehensive about drawing any attention to himself, because what if Natasha was right?

What if Steve had washed his hands of Bucky and simply didn't wish to see him again?

His heart clenches painfully at that, but it's what he deserves. He wouldn't fault Steve for wanting to put some distance between them.

But just when Bucky thought the silence would all but consume him, Steve finally speaks, quietly. Reserved. Just a murmur, really. It shows just how much he's suffering, and Bucky is once again reminded that he was the one that did this. This is his fault. 

"You okay?" Is the first thing Steve's said to him since yesterday, and even after everything Bucky's done, Steve still chose to put him first. He could have said anything. Cursed his name. Spit profanities at him. Anything. It just goes to show what kind of man Steve really is at his core. His kindness isn't just for show. He's genuinely a good man. A better man than Bucky, that's for sure.

"Doc said I have a bump on the head and maybe a sprained wrist," Bucky says, extending his right arm out for good measure. "But it's nothing to fuss over."

There's an ace wrap around his wrist, and it catches Steve's attention when Bucky shows him. He gets a look of sympathy, and then nothing more. Steve just...shuts down again.

"What about you?" Bucky asks. "Are you doing alright, Steve?"

He sighs. "I'll live."

"Sam?"

"Gone."

Bucky swallows audibly, and Steve snorts when he catches the look of unease that's settled on his face like a second skin.

"Relax," he huffs. "I don't need a babysitter. Sam is just getting a few things sorted out at home before I'm released in a few hours. Can't really go back home 'till the cops are done tearing my house apart... _again."_

Bucky winces, biting his lip hard enough to blanch the skin as white as his teeth. He takes a few steps forward, then stops abruptly when Steve looks up and hold up his hand.

"That's close enough." He says, and he sounds exhausted. About as run down as Bucky feels. "Why are you here, James? What more do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything from you, Steve. I just wanted to talk." Bucky whispers in a small voice. "I have to tell you something. Explain a few things."

Steve shrugs, nonplussed. "What else is there to say? The video said plenty."

Bucky purses his lips. The fact that Rumlow was able to turn this around to make him look like an unfaithful partner just makes his blood boil. That's not how it was at all. Rumlow was obsessed, and Bucky was in a place that made his withdrawal from that situation difficult. But for Steve to actually believe it? It's practically Bucky's worst nightmare.

"I'm an escort, Steve." He says without further stalling; his voice a little more clipped than it should have been. "Rumlow was a client of mine. Nothing more. That video you saw was taken a while ago, way before I ever met you. He was just using it to get under your skin, paint me a certain way. Maybe even to get you to do his dirty work for him, if you were angry enough."

He can see the realization dawning on Steve in real-time, and the horror he finds there is almost worse than if Steve were to slap him. 

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Steve asks. "Why hide it? I would have understood. I wouldn't have–"

"Because I couldn't, Steve." Bucky interjects. "The way we met wasn't–I was...I was contracted to–meet with you, flirt, make it seem like I was interested so you'd, uh..."

Bucky doesn't have the heart to even finish that sentence. When it's phrased that way, yeah, he sounds pretty damn heartless. Bucky could have used a little more tact in explaining himself, and Steve appears to be waging a war deep within himself on whether he should cry or just straight up punch Bucky to make himself feel better, and in the end he chooses neither. He just goes very still, focusing intently on controlling his erratic breathing more than anything.

When he appears to have a better handle on himself, he looks up, and the glare he levels at Bucky is cold enough to freeze him right there at the foot of Steve's bed.

Out of all the reactions Bucky expected, for some reason, irate was somehow worse than if Steve had dissolved into tears right there on the spot.

"Who contracted you?" He growls, teeth grinding together in restraint.

Bucky grimaces. "Does it matter, Steve?"

"Yes, _James._ I really think it does." Steve snaps, and okay, Bucky deserved that one, but he's not about to throw Sam under the bus for this. "How much were you paid to fucking lie to my face? Why would you even?–What the fuck did I ever do to you?!"

Bucky backs up a step, hand clutching his chest as his lungs seize up. He can feel himself start to cry, and he's embarrassed and humiliated that he's reacting this way, but that feeling of sharp pressure in the pit of his stomach keeps building, and building, to the point where Bucky can't hold it in no matter what he does. "F-four thousand." God, he's so pathetic. "But–but I didn't take the money, Steve. Yes, at first, it was all business. I told you what you wanted to hear. I did my best to get close to you, because it was my fucking _job!"_

Bucky can't breathe. He's sobbing, and at this point, it's just a disaster. Steve won't look at him anymore and his skin feels two sizes too tight, and he's pretty sure he might either pass out or throw up from how utterly disgusting he feels right now.

"B-but then everything changed. I f–" he chokes, physically anguished by the words on his tongue. But Steve needs to hear this, regardless of how he's feeling. This was the reason he came here in the first place. He can't back out now. "I started falling in love. With you. With the way you wanted me and how you... _touched_ me...I couldn't–I didn't–"

Steve silences him with a raised finger, and Bucky clamps his mouth shut. His expression is equal parts pained, horrified, and weary, like Bucky's confession just sucked the marrow from his bones.

That's it. There's nothing left of him. Nothing left for Bucky to take.

"I–" Steve takes a shallow breath. Eyes downcast. "You don't actually expect me to believe any of that, do you? You _fell in love_ with me? _–really?!_ You think that saying some line of bullshit is gonna make this go away?"

"No, Steve, It's not–"

"I can't trust a damn thing that comes out of your mouth, James, and–no. You know what? I can't–you need to leave. Now."

Bucky's entire world caves in around him. His heart is cracked open and bleeding, lungs filling with lead. Tears are wetting his cheeks like rivulets of rain, but Steve is just so tired of it all. He doesn't have the heart to care anymore. 

This is what Bucky was most afraid of, second to Rumlow, and now everything is coming down around his ears and he has no one to blame for this but himself.

He caused this. Bucky just lost the best thing that's ever happened to him, and he's the reason why.

With resignation settling deep in his gut, Bucky nods solemnly–knowing in his heart that Steve was right to send him away–and turns around to head back out into the hallway. He's barely holding himself together, slowly ripping down the middle like a jagged knife pushed through paper.

He's just reaching the doorway when Steve speaks up, asking him in a hoarse whisper laced with crushing heartbreak, "was any of it ever real, Bucky?"

Bucky stops, sucking in a short, quivering breath before he answers. And the truth is more painful than any lie he's ever told Steve.

"You're the only real thing I've ever touched."

Without another word, Bucky leaves. And it's then, when he's alone and raw, unstitched and broken, that Steve falls apart.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkness to the light, I'll be forever gracious.  
> Grey in your eyes, your soul must be silver-plated.  
> Though we don't talk, I'll miss our conversations.  
> I fall apart, you fill up the empty spaces.

Bucky's bare feet dragged uncooperatively under the heavy weight of his wounded heart, solemnly making the short trek from Steve's hospital room to his own after Steve had bitterly cast him out like a pariah.

His eyes are downcast, wicked thoughts devouring him down to the bone as grief sets in and the reality of what had just transpired between them becomes wholly inescapable.

He'd lost Steve. Wonderful, amazing, precious Steve. And as much as he'd like to blame Rumlow or Sam, say that he wasn't at fault and that he deserves a second chance, he knows better than to take those notions to heart. 

They are nothing more than the last pleas of a dying man.

He feels almost numb to how strong the pain of losing Steve truly is, and yet at the same time, his heart is thick with agony, loath to continue beating just for the mere sake of living. But this anguish reminds him of who's to blame, and that Steve is feeling much of the same thing because of him. So Bucky has no choice but to succumb to it, drown in the harsh waves of misery like Steve is himself.

It's his punishment, you see, for darkening the heart of an innocent with his filth and lies. 

It's what he deserves.

With a sigh, Bucky's weary eyes wander up from the floor, unexpectedly locking onto Sam's severe gaze as he heads down the hall toward Steve's room; a black duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a wad of paperwork clutched tightly in his right hand.

_ Shit.  _

Bucky swallows thickly and averts his eyes, but even as he does, he can still feel the weight of Sam's accusatory glare burrowing into his brain, and Bucky knows that he's not about to come out of this unscathed.

Sam's a shark in the water, all sharp, gnashing teeth and dark, predatory eyes. He's out for blood, and Bucky has no hope of escaping him now.

Time slows to a crawl as the two gradually close the short distance between them, and Bucky barely has time to react as Sam's left hand darts out to snatch him roughly by his arm; dragging him bodily into the unoccupied room to their right and closing the door behind them with a soft  _ 'click' _ that doesn't measure up to the promise of Sam's intentions.

The room is cast in a dim, ghostly glow of soft moonlight and the amber lighting spilling out from the adjacent bathroom just behind them, masking Sam's stern face with dark shadows as he shoves Bucky up against the closed door with bruising force.

The air is sharply punched out of his lungs in the shape of a gasp, hands coming up to block the punch that Sam never even threw.

Yet, he waits; body bow-string tense and slightly trembling. But even knowing that he's earned this and much worse, Sam still doesn't strike him. The hands clasped on his shoulders haven't moved an inch, and when Bucky risks a glance upward to find the cause of the delay, he instead finds Sam's face twisted with uncertainty; half-cocked and rearing for a fight, but reluctant to follow through for reasons unknown to Bucky.

A long moment passes by, and just when Bucky's convinced they're trapped in this juncture forever, Sam finally breaks the deafening silence and speaks. But it's not at all what Bucky assumed he'd say.

"Put your damn hands down, Barnes. God knows I want to, but I'm not gonna hurt you." 

Bucky's throat struggles to unclog as Sam's command eventually registers, a small sound of confusion bubbling up as he cautiously lowers his hands.

"What?" He rasps. "W-why?"

The question, despite being rather innocuous, appears to startle Sam, and he steps back a bit, releasing Bucky's shoulders from the iron of his grip. However, Bucky doesn't move. Whatever Sam brought him here to do, he's not about to run from it. Sam could beat his ass to death if he wanted to (he can see that he desperately wants to) and Bucky wouldn't do a damn thing to stop him.

In his mind, he's earned it for what he's done to Steve.

Sam sees the resignation in his eyes, just then, and he sighs wearily, slowly dragging his hands down his face as he collects himself.

"Look, what you did was–" Sam shakes his head, chewing his words carefully. "Steve is family. I protect my family from guys like you.  _ But _ ...I was also the one that put you in his path. I was desperate and stupid to look to you for help, to trust your word that you'd take care of him like you promised you would. That's on me, and I know now that I never should have trusted you with this, Barnes."

Those words hit harder than any blow ever could, and Bucky shrinks in on himself as they pierce and strike his vulnerable flesh like bullets of the highest caliber.

"I should beat your ass for how badly you hurt him, if for nothing else, maybe just so I can sleep a little better at night, knowing you got what was comin' to you," Sam shrugs. "But I won't, because Steve wouldn't want me to."

Upon hearing that, Bucky's eyes snap up to meet Sam's, desperately willing himself to say something.  _ Anything _ to counter that statement. But he can't say a word, because that would mean that Steve still cares, and Bucky wants nothing more than to believe that Steve hasn't completely forsaken him.

If that's true, then Steve at least cares enough to keep him from feeling the brunt of Sam's wrath, which is still more than he deserves. And quite frankly, he'll take whatever compassion Steve wants to give him. 

"I'm sorry," is what ultimately ends up coming out of his mouth, and it's so laughably bereft that saying nothing would have been a better bet, judging by the scowl that takes over Sam's face.

"You're sorry?" Sam echoes, voice tight with rapidly depleting restraint. "That's what you have to say to all this? You're fucking sorry?! Man, you really are a piece of shit, aren't you, Barnes?"

Sam hit the hammer on the head with that one. No truer words have ever been said.

"I am," Bucky whispers. "Sorry. For all of this. I never intended to fall–" Bucky pauses, choking off the admission before it could leave his lips, knowing that Sam wouldn't want to hear it. "I never wanted to hurt him, Sam. I tried to tell him the truth. I wanted to–w-when things weren't going the way they were supposed to, but–"

"You were only  _ supposed _ to show him a good time!" Sam bites out from between clenched teeth, and Bucky flinches when his fist strikes the bedside table next to them; nearly cracking the wood from the force. "One night. That's what we agreed to, Barnes.  _ One fucking night! _ What the hell happened?!"

"I don't know-" Bucky whimpers, eyes hot with unshed tears he can barely contain. But Sam doesn't stop. Doesn't back down or soften his blows. Each new accusation feels like a punch to the gut, and it's taking every ounce of strength Bucky has just to remain upright as Sam crowds him up against the wall.

"Were you after more money, you greedy fuck?" Sam interrogates. "Or did you just like fuckin' with him too much to stop?

Bucky sobs. "No. It wasn't like that–"

"Then what was it, huh?!" He barks, getting into Bucky's space; his tone laced with the promise of a split lip. "What did you want that kept you hangin' 'round?! Why couldn't you just do your damn job?! Why–"

It was then, when Sam's belittling words began to warp into the voice of his own father, that the dam of Bucky's composure finally broke.

"I only wanted him!" Bucky cries, shoving Sam back a step so that he could breathe. His chest is tight, heart pounding in his ears as the room goes deathly quiet. Sam is looking at him skeptically, and Bucky doesn't fault him one bit for it. He wouldn't trust anything he said either if he were in Sam's position. But Sam wanted to know the reason why Bucky couldn't let go, and he just can't hold it back any longer.

He said he wasn't going to run from this. So, Bucky plants himself like a tree before Sam, and in an act of pure bravery, let it all fucking go.

"I just wanted to be with him, Sam." Bucky murmurs, and Sam's eyes widen as he begins to understand Bucky's plight. "I–things got complicated with Brock, and I never intended for Steve to get caught up in it."

"Then why did he?" 

"Brock was–" Bucky pauses, searching for the right word. "Possessive. Of me. What he thought we had, maybe. I never gave him cause to believe the things he did, and I was trying to get away from him, Sam. But Nat was involved and–"

"Woah. Hold up." Sam interjects, holding his palm up. He sounds surprised. "Nat knew about this?"

"Not fully," Bucky admits. Sam's demeanor has slightly lessened from borderline homicidal to something akin to unnerved curiosity. His urge to protect Natasha is temporarily overriding his desire to clock Bucky in the face. So, hallelujah for that. Bucky might actually come out of this alive, if not missing a few teeth after Sam's done with him. "She knew  _ of _ him, and his intention to–use me. When I started selling myself, Nat insisted on vetting my clients to make sure they didn't have any priors for assault or anything like that. Just to make things a little safer for me. She was putting herself at risk to help me."

"And I'm guessing Rumlow knew about that?" Sam supplies, quickly catching on. If Nat was using police resources for personal reasons, she'd be liable for disciplinary action, possibly losing her job and her pension in the fallout. The fact that she was using those resources to aid in illegal activity would also leave her susceptible to serving jail time on top of all of that. 

Bucky nods. "I did what I had to do to keep Rumlow quiet. I planned on using the money I had to escape–somehow save up enough to take Nat and run somewhere he couldn't follow."

Sam is very quiet as he listens, and Bucky can see the way the tension in his shoulders is starting to slowly melt away like ice in the sun. He's finally beginning to understand that Bucky's hands were tied by many different bindings. Some of which he'd put there himself.

Of course, there was Rumlow–who used blackmail to obtain what he believed he was owed. Who used violence as a means to control, isolate, and keep Bucky for himself.

Natasha–who stuck her neck out to help Bucky in his endeavors. Whose very future was on the line should her extracurricular activities with Bucky be leaked.

Sam–who deliberately told Bucky that Steve could never know what he really was. Who dangled money in front of Bucky (money he'd need to use to get away from Rumlow) and threatened to take it away if Bucky broke the agreement and let the truth slip out.

And then there was Steve–who wanted Bucky in a way that was so far beyond the scope of Bucky's craft. Who offered kindness and compassion to a man so thoroughly burnt out by life that it's really no surprise that he ended up getting too attached in the end.

Bucky was set up to fail right from the start.

"But–" Bucky averts his eyes, letting them drift down to lock onto a spot on the tiled floor. "Things changed after I met Steve. Rumlow became...unhinged. He was convinced that I was lying about what Steve was to me, and he was right. I  _ did _ lie when I said he meant nothing. That he was just another client–" Bucky glances upward cautiously. Sam's arms are folded across his chest, but he doesn't appear to be vindictive anymore. He just looks tired. "I couldn't tell him the truth, Sam. Rumlow would have gone after Steve if I had. I never outright lied about who I was when I was with Steve, but a lie by omission is still a lie and I put him in danger because of that. I stupidly fell in love, and I should know better than anyone that love gets people hurt."

Sam huffs, suddenly feeling very much like an ass for nearly killing Bucky in a blind rage. He'd heard what Steve told the officers when they'd taken his statement and determined that there was something more about the break-in than what was being said. Steve couldn't provide any details about who Rumlow was or why he'd chosen Steve's home in Park Slope as a prime spot to burglarize, but Sam could tell that Steve was protecting Bucky with the things he wasn't saying, and Sam–having nothing else to go on– assumed the worst. 

Now that he has all of the variables, Sam can start to see how problematic this entire situation was from the beginning.

If Bucky had met Steve on his own, things might have worked out differently for them. They found happiness in each other. True contentment to ease their restless hearts. But now everything is tainted and marred, and they will never know the future they could have had with each other.

* * *

 

"I don't want to talk about it, Sam." Steve murmurs from where he's slumped in the passenger seat. He's been staring blankly out the window for the past twenty minutes, trying to ignore the way Sam's eyes keep trailing from the road to burn into the side of his skull. 

They haven't said much to each other since Steve was discharged from the hospital; now heading to Sam's home in Crown Heights, and each time Sam attempts to lighten the heavy atmosphere between them with easy conversation, Steve effectively kills it off with curt answers and one-worded replies, leaving them both stuck in this weird space of plausible deniability, ignoring the massive elephant in the room that is James Buchanan Barnes.

Sam hasn't actually asked Steve outright about what happened with Barnes, and it's relatively clear that Steve would rather swallow broken glass than admit his heart's been broken by a misunderstood con artist, but yet, those questions still hang in the air between them, and they'll continue to do so until somebody addresses them.

That being said, it doesn't look like it's gonna happen anytime soon. Neither of them are really in a good place to start sorting through the pile of unresolved emotions Bucky left them with, but Sam realizes that they'll have to deal with them eventually.

"Wasn't asking you to," Sam calmly retorts. "Just wondering if you're gonna be okay, that's all."

Sam's not surprised the answer he receives is clipped. Steve's been hanging on by a thread since Bucky left his hospital room the night before, and it's only a matter of time before he collapses under the weight of his heavy heart.

"I'm fine. Just wanna go home."

"Alright. I'll leave it be." Sam sighs. "For now."

* * *

 

In the end, It takes nearly two and a half weeks for them finally break down and have  _ 'The Talk' _ , but by that point, Steve is practically crawling out of his skin with acrimony and Sam's just lucky he hasn't gone bald from the stress and remorse currently festering in his chest like a sickness.

There hasn't been a whole lot of anything happening between the two of them since everything went to shit. They don't really talk anymore, but then again, Steve's been reluctant to say much at all about what's on his mind in the first place. He's withdrawn and angry, and it just comes off like Steve's shutting Sam out along with the rest of the world.

Sam doesn't blame him for that, considering what happened.

Steve's mind can't let go of what happened. He plays it on loop every night before he attempts to sleep, and it's the first thing he hears upon waking; Bucky's farewell to him burrowing deep into his brain like a tick, whispering laments in his ear.

_ "You're the only real thing I've ever touched." _ He'd confessed in that broken whisper of his, and it just makes everything between them feel so unresolved; like they're both hanging in limbo, waiting for the other to make a move.

Steve won't be the one to give in first. 

Not this time.

He won't allow himself to entertain the idea that things could change for the better. He's dug his heels in like a stubborn mule, going so far as to cut off any and all contact he had with Bucky.

Though, Bucky hasn't actually attempted to reach out at all since they split up, despite Steve's secret hopes that he would, and it's honestly disheartening to think that Bucky's possibly already moved on.

That is, If he was ever forthright about his feelings in the first place.

Maybe Steve's a fool for thinking Bucky'd truly meant what he'd said that night in the hospital; that what they had was real. That Bucky fell in love, same as Steve had with him.

He's loath to admit to himself that Bucky still has his heart clutched in a death grip, but that statement couldn't be any closer to the truth, and it infuriates him that he feels this way about a person that'd hurt him so badly.

It seems that Peggy was right about him all along. Steve wears his heart on his sleeve, loving others as if he'd never known grief before. But being in love like this makes Steve feel as if he's watching someone die, and all he wants to do is just close his eyes and  _ forget  _ that he'd ever met Bucky at all _. _

But he can't. 

Bucky is still a part of him, same as he always was. Nothing but time can ever change that, and even then, Bucky will remain a phantom in his dreams; the one that made him feel whole again when he was falling apart. Unstitched by life's brutality. 

But he was also undone by love. 

They both were.

Even now, as Steve's sitting at Sam's kitchen table with an untouched cup of coffee steaming in front of him, he senses the threads binding his wounded heart are unraveling, and he's but a breath away from falling apart.

Or maybe he already is.

"You're sure you wanna do this?" Sam's asking him, and Steve can hear the skepticism laced in his tone. 

He remembers sitting at this very table a short time ago, just after Peggy had died, and Sam had asked the same thing then.

"You can stay as long as you need to, Steve. You know I love having you here." Sam reiterates, and it's eerily reminiscent of how things had played out before, giving him a sense of deja vu. Only this time, Sam's compassion feels more like a bad joke than what he's aiming for: the whole White Knight savior thing he does so well.

This is what he gets for having friends.

Steve sighs, answering with a curt nod. He'd received the go-ahead to return home earlier this morning from the detective assigned to his case, and Steve is both relieved and strangely disappointed that he has the option to leave the safety and familiarity of Sam's cozy little brownstone in Crown Heights.

The home he'd built with Peggy is stained with blood and death, and Steve isn't quite ready to face that reality alone. But he also can't stay here and avoid the issue altogether. 

Sam has a life of his own he needs to lead, and besides that, he and Sam haven't been on the best of terms lately.

Something Bucky'd said is sticking to the walls of his mind like a stubborn cobweb, and Steve hasn't yet addressed it because he's afraid of what he'll hear when he finally does.

It's no secret that Sam's been worried about him, doing whatever he could to try and pull Steve out of the pit of despair he'd dug for himself after Peggy's murder.

There'd been many nights where Steve had been forced out of his self-imposed seclusion by Sam's insistence on going out; meeting women in bars and clubs he had no interest in pursuing, and enduring endless blind set-ups with a friend of a friend he barely knew at all. 

None of it worked. Being subjected to Sam's countless attempts at playing matchmaker only made him want to isolate himself further. He missed Peggy too much to move on to something else, and in Steve's opinion, those women never measured up to what he'd had with her anyway.

Steve's never felt a strong connection with anyone else like he'd experienced with Peggy.

Until he'd met Bucky, of course.

How convenient it was to find him the way he had, sitting in Sam's usual seat at the tavern they frequented. At the time, Steve didn't want to look beyond the surface. But now, he can't help but see that Sam's fingerprints are all over this.

In the back of his mind, Steve knows that Sam was the one to contract Bucky. Sam had set him up with a fucking escort and then played the fool when Steve began to talk about some gorgeous stranger he'd just so happened to meet the same night Sam oddly bailed on him.

Sam fucking lied to his face for weeks about this, and honestly, that's what Steve is so angry about.

The constant string of lies surrounding this. 

If Sam had been transparent from the start, he wouldn't be in this situation right now. He wouldn't be suffering like he is, missing Bucky and wishing he'd said more or just said  _ something _ to fix all of this.

But this can't really be fixed, can it?

It's too far gone. Steve's too indignant to even try, and he doubts that Bucky will ever come back to him now, especially after the way Steve rejected him. 

He doesn't want this to be goodbye, but he's also not ready to forgive Bucky for the things he'd done. 

Forgiveness means giving in, letting go of his anger and moving on. Steve doesn't want to move on, and if that implies staying angry, then that's just what he'll do.

But this thing with Sam is eating him alive inside, and Steve isn't sure he'll be able to stand another second of this cautious silence they're stuck in.

He wants to know the truth, but he has a feeling that he already does, and it terrifies him to think that Sam–who's the closest thing to family he now has–would violate his trust like this.

Really, he just wants to know  _ why. _

"Did you know him?–before all of...this?" The words are suddenly out of Steve's mouth before he even registers that his lips are moving, disrupting the early afternoon stillness that's settled in the kitchen. Sam stiffens as soon as the question hits him, his back turned to Steve as he idly messes with the coffee maker.

Steve takes a slow breath in, steeling himself against whatever Sam's about to say. He's waiting to hear another lie; some excuse Sam will give to let himself off the hook. But Sam doesn't do that.

Instead, he tells Steve the truth, and just as he expected, it does nothing at all to soften the blow.

"Yes," Sam answers without preamble. "I met him through Natasha a few weeks back."

Steve figured that much. What he saw between Bucky and Natasha implied that they were close, and it's realistic to think that Sam would have been privy to that relationship one way or another. There isn't much that Sam and Natasha don't share with each other. Bucky included, it appears.

Steve nods, eyes locked on his cup of coffee. "You knew what he was."

It's not a question, Sam knows; intentionally phrased like a statement. Steve has already sifted through the evidence against him, and Sam isn't about to lie about it now.

If they're finally going to have this conversation, then Sam will be completely transparent about it. Steve doesn't need to hear excuses, and he damn sure doesn't want anything sugar-coated to help it go down easier.

The lies they told might not be any better than the truth, but Steve needs to hear it regardless.

"I knew then that Barnes was an escort," Sam confirms, shifting against the counter to face Steve head-on. "I was looking for someone professional. Someone I knew would catch your eye."

At that, Steve glances up, and he doesn't miss the way Sam's shoulders tense when their eyes meet across the way.

"Why?" 

It's a simple question, really. But Sam is still struggling to force the words out. Because once he gives life to it, there's no taking it back.

Sam swallows, straightening out his spine to stand tall; mimicking bravery in a time he needs it the most.

"You know why, Steve."

He does, but–"I want to hear you say it."

Sam sighs wearily, but surprisingly, he manages to hold Steve's gaze as the truth finally comes spilling out of his mouth like a raging river; destroying everything in its path. 

"I was desperate," Sam explains, crossing his arms defensively. "I've watched you drown yourself in grief for three damn years, Steve. I did everything I could to save you, but you didn't want to be saved, did you? There was nothing out there for you after Peggy, and I knew it was just a matter of time before I lost you too." 

Steve doesn't respond to that. Wouldn't know what to say even if he did. Sam's right. Steve didn't see much beauty in life after he'd lost Peggy, and each day he had to wake up alone, without the other half of his heart, was another day he'd wished he'd boldly taken that step to join her the first time the idea crossed his mind. 

Sam was right to be concerned.

But why this? 

Why choose something like this– _ someone _ like Bucky to try and bring Steve back from the precipice?

It was then that Steve noticed the way he's been unfairly framing Bucky's profession. 

Sex work isn't something Bucky should be ashamed of, and Steve's acutely disgusted by his own reaction to what Bucky does for a living. It shouldn't really matter that Bucky exchanges pleasure for pay, especially if he's claiming that his heart is firmly with Steve. 

But it does matter.

Selfishly, it really does.

"Peggy was my friend too, y'know." Sam continues. "I couldn't watch you slowly kill yourself like that, and I know for damn sure that Peggy wouldn't want this for you either. She always wanted you to live your life to the fullest, even if it  _ wasn't _ with her. You're not keeping your promises, Steve. You'd break her heart if she could see you now."

The muscles in Steve's jaw tense, and the atmosphere in the room abruptly shifts to something cold and bitter.

"But she can't, Sam," Steve says icily. He's standing now, squaring his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight. Sam struck a nerve invoking the memory of his broken promises to her. He knows what he said, and he doesn't need Sam to remind him of what a shitty husband he was to her. Steve promised Peggy so much, but in the end, he never kept a single one.  _ "Peggy's dead." _

But, Sam doesn't back down. He meets Steve's animosity with a ferocity of his own; brown eyes burning with a long-suffering fury that's been simmering for the better part of three years.

"That doesn't mean that life has to end for you too, Steve. That's what this whole fucking thing was about! I'd hoped that Barnes could've been the one to show you that, but things got out of hand, and for that, I'm truly sorry. Neither he nor I ever wanted to hurt you."

"But you did, Sam!" Steve snaps. "How can you be so obtuse about this?! What did you think would happen that night, huh? That we'd fuck and suddenly I'd be all better?"

"You weren't even trying to get better, Steve! You just wanted to shut yourself up in that crypt you call a house and wallow in your own self-pity."

"Fuck you, Sam." Steve spits, but he realizes that the reason he's so wounded by that assertion is because it's true. Painfully, humiliatingly true. "I never asked you to fucking save me."

"You didn't have to," Sam says. "that's what family does for each other."

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in agitation. "You can't be serious. You're just as bad as Bucky, Sam. Using your good intentions to justify this clusterfuck of a mess! This is my life you're fucking with, not some problem you think you have to solve!"

This is getting them nowhere, Steve knows. But it feels so fucking good to finally have an outlet for all of his misplaced anguish. Everything he's been bottling up since Peggy is now erupting out of him like magma, and Steve wants to let himself burn in it. Wants to destroy Sam and Bucky and everything they ever had together in one fell swoop.

But Sam isn't going to let him do that.

His voice softens as he approaches the table Steve's leaning on, and Steve feels a bit of his anger bleed out of him when Sam reaches out to touch his shoulder.

"I'll be the first to admit that I made a mistake with Barnes. I never should have gone the way I did with it. But you have to admit that you were happier than you'd been in a long time with him, were you not?" 

He was. But Steve can't admit that to himself, much less to Sam.

"None of it was real, Sam. He was in it for the money, not me." 

"He didn't take the money." Sam murmurs, and Steve's face falls. "Not all of it, anyway. You have to remember that this was a job to him, up until it wasn't. Things changed. It became real for him, just as it was for you."

Steve hesitates. "That doesn't make it right. He lied." 

"No, you're right," Sam agrees, shaking his head."But I believe you know in your heart that it doesn't matter as much as you think it does. The only thing he lied about was his job. Everything else was just... _ him." _

"He told me he fell in love with me." Steve quietly says, like he's afraid of what'll happen if he gives that confession any more power over him than it already has. "That it was real– what we had."

Sam's lips quirk up in a soft smile. "I believe him. The situation that brought you two together may have been a crock of shit, but what grew between you two wasn't. That was real, Steve."

Steve's shoulders slump as the faint seed of hope begins to slowly bloom in his chest. Even so, he doubts anything will come of it. Unresolved as their ending may be, it's still a parting of the ways for them, and Steve isn't sure that will ever change.

"I'm not asking for you to forgive him–or me–outright," Sam suggests. "But, having said that, I do think you should talk to him. If for nothing else, just to give yourself some closure."

Steve purses his lips, eyes shifting toward the door at the sound of a car horn blaring just outside the house.

His cab is here, and it's time for him to go.

As he lifts his duffel bag onto his shoulder, Sam slips a small strip of paper into his hand, telling him to give it some thought before he makes his decision.

Steve nods resolutely, and leaves without another word.

Once inside the cab, Steve opens his palm and sighs, resting his head against the back of the seat as the driver pulls away from the curb, asking him where he'd like to go.

> _ 299 Throop Avenue apt. 410B.  _

It's a blatant invitation, and a tempting one at that. But is he really ready to face Bucky after everything that ensued?

Can they put what happened behind them to have even a small chance to start anew?

Does Steve love him enough to forgive him?

"Where to, pal?" The driver asks again.

Steve glances down at the address Sam had given him, and considers those questions as he remembers the words Bucky'd said. Every touch, every kiss, every caress they ever shared, and wonders if it's something he can live without.

Then, when his mind finally comes to the same conclusion as his heart, Steve sets his sights toward his future, and makes his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary: "I don't like darkness" by Chase Atlantic.


End file.
